




COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



DAVID IVES 






























































THEY THOUGHT MAYBE YOU 'd RATHER BE ALONE ” 

( Page 77 ) 


DAVID IVES 

A STORY OF ST. TIMOTHY’S 


BY 

ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY 

FRANKLIN WOOD 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
<Efje fttoerfifoe Cambridge 

1922 



COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY PERRY MASON COMPANY 
COPYRIGHT, 1922, BY ARTHUR STANWOOD PIER 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 



* « 

"« • • 

CAMBRIDGE . MASSACHUSETTS 
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A. 


OCT 13 'll 

©C1A683GC0 


CONTENTS 

I. Farewell to Rosewood 1 

II. A Gentleman and a Scholar 22 

III. Hostilities 36 

IV. Friendships 56 

V. The Return 73 

VI. Probation 91 

VII. Blindness 108 

VIII. Wallace’s Examination 123 

IX. David’s Enlightenment 137 

X. Mr. Dean provides for the Future 151 

XI. The Family Migration 169 

XII. The New Neighbor 183 

XIII. Hero Worship 196 

XIV. Anti-Climax 218 

XV. The Torn Page 231 

XVI. Lester and David 242 

XVII. The First Marshal 256 

XVIII. Relinquishment 278 

XIX. Attainment 294 
















ILLUSTRATIONS 


“ They thought maybe you ’d rather be 

alone ” Frontispiece 

“ HOW DID YOU FIND THE EXAMINATIONS? ” 30 

Tackled a runner in the open field and got 

A WRENCHED ANKLE 70 

“Oh! ” cried David. He clasped Mr. Dean’s 

HAND. “It — IT can’t BE SERIOUS ” 114 



DAYID IYES 


CHAPTER I 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 



HE suburb in which David Ives lived and in 


A which David’s father had most of his med- 
ical practice was by no means one of the wealthy 
and prosperous suburbs of the wealthy and pros- 
perous city. It was a new and raw-looking region ; 
many of the streets were unpaved, littered and 
weed-grown; and unfenced lots and two-family 
tenement houses were alike its characteristics; 
there were numerous billboards along the side- 
walks; the trees were few in number and had 
grown half-heartedly. 

But David, returning from the baseball field on 
a hot July afternoon, saw nothing depressing in 
the neighborhood. He walked with his coat flung 
over his shoulder and his cap in his hand. He had 
distinguished himself at the bat; he was thirsty 
and thinking of the cold ginger ale he would drink; 


2 


DAVID IVES 


he was hungry and thinking of the raspberries he 
would eat; he was pleasantly tired and thinking 
of an evening to be passed in comfort and inter- 
est over “David Copperfield.” A gust of wind 
flung dirt and dust into his face and made him 
wonder w T hy the watering-carts so seldom visited 
Rosewood, — for such was the misleading name 
of the suburb, — but the next moment he turned 
into a more shaded and attractive street and for- 
got his displeasure in the satisfaction of drawing 
near his home. He passed the Carters’ bungalow 
and the Porters’ Queen Anne cottage and the Jenni- 
sons’ mansard dwelling, and then he turned up 
the flagstone walk that led between two narrow bits 
of lawn to his father’s door. 

The house was square and gray and shabby; 
there was a room thrown out at one end of the 
wide front porch, and over the door that admitted 
to this room hung a lantern bearing the words, 
“ Dr. Ives.” The door and the window were both 
open, and just before passing into the front hall 
David had a glimpse of his father seated at his 
desk in a characteristic attitude, with his gray 
head resting on his hand w T hile an invisible patient 
recited her symptoms. That the patient was a 
woman David knew, because he heard the quern- 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


3 


lous drone of her voice — it was just the drone 
that he associated with his father’s numerous 
charity cases. 

In the dining-room Maggie, the maid of all work, 
was setting the table for supper. 

“Where’s mother, Maggie?” David asked. 

“Search me!” replied Maggie, who looked red 
and hot and at war with the world. 

As there was obviously nothing to be gained by 
complying with Maggie’s request, David passed 
on to the parlor and the library, and not finding 
his mother in either place, went upstairs three 
steps at a time. Then he saw her sitting in her 
room, looking disconsolately out of the window. 
So sad was the expression on her face that David 
forgot what had been in his mind and exclaimed: 

“What’s the matter, mother?” 

Mrs. Ives rose and came toward him, with her 
arms outstretched. 

“ Oh, David dear, I can’t bear to have you go, 
I can’t bear to have you go!” With her arms 
round his neck she was sobbing on his shoulder. 

“ Go where?” David was bewildered and dis- 
tressed. “ What are you talking about, mother?” 

She did not immediately answer, but went on 
weeping quietly. Then she said : “ I will let your 
father tell you about it. It is his decision.” 


4 


DAVID IVES 


“ Then it can’t be anything so very terrible, 
mother,” David said, and he stroked and patted 
her while she clung to him. 

“ Not for you, perhaps, David, but it seems very 
hard to me. It may all be for the best, but I don’t 
know — I don’t know — ” 

David could not help reflecting that his father 
was always the optimist of the family and his 
mother usually the pessimist, and that therefore 
it would be desirable to await his father’s unfold- 
ing of the mystery. So he set about getting his 
mother into better spirits, which he did by tweak- 
ing her ears, kissing her, and telling her that he 
did not know where he was going or for how long, 
but that, wherever it was, they could not keep him 
from coming back to home and mother. She was 
a pretty little woman who looked scarcely old 
enough to have such a tall and stalwart son, and 
as he held her in his arms she seemed to be a kind 
of child mother — an anxious, diffident, confid- 
ing, appealing little person, with sensitive lips 
and timorous, soft brown eyes. David looked 
like her and yet not like her; his eyes were 
brown and shone affectionately, but there was 
fearlessness rather than timorousness in their 
glance; his lips were sensitive, but their curve 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


5 


showed a resolute rather than a vacillating char- 
acter; he had his mother’s wavy brown hair. 
Soothing his mother, he smoothed her hair, he 
took her handkerchief and dried her eyes with it. 
“ And now does this come next?” he asked, reach- 
ing for a powder-puff. So he got her to laugh, 
and her face had brightened when he led her 
downstairs. 

“Found her, did you?” said Maggie as they 
passed the dining-room. Her tone was one of 
good-natured interest, but David did not feel it 
necessary to reply. He had reached an age when 
he was beginning to dislike Maggie’s familiar 
manners. Mrs. Ives admitted she was too much 
of a coward to try to correct them. 

As David and his mother entered the library, 
his ten-year-old brother Ralph rushed in breath- 
lessly, declaring his satisfaction at finding that he 
was not late for supper. “ I guess you will be, 
if you try to get yourself properly ready for it,” 
remarked David, looking the unkempt and dirty- 
faced small boy over with disfavor. Ralph thrust 
out his tongue, but when David commanded him 
sternly to go upstairs and get clean, with some 
stamping and scuffing he obeyed. 

Across the hall rose the violent clamor of the 


6 


DAVID IVES 


supper bell, which Maggie always rang as if she 
were summoning the neighborhood to a fire. David 
and his mother had just seated themselves at the 
table when Rnlph came crashing down the stairs, 
bounced into the room, and hurled himself into 
his chair, snorting and panting. 

“ Gee, you do make a noise!” David said. 

“ So do you — with your mouth,” Ralph re- 
joined promptly. 

“Boys, boys!” sighed Mrs. Ives, and David 
turned red and restrained the ready retort. It was 
hard, because Ralph looked across the table at 
him jauntily, defiantly. 

The entrance of Dr. Ives had a quieting effect 
on the provocative younger brother. David, glanc- 
ing at his father, had the uneasy, vaguely ap- 
prehensive feeling that had frequently taken 
possession of him of late. He was always expect- 
ing, always hoping that his father would conform 
in appearance more nearly to the mental picture 
to which the boy constantly returned — the picture 
of a tall man, straight and ruddy and broad- 
shouldered, with laughing eyes and a collar that 
fitted his neck snugly. It was disappointing — it 
was worse than disappointing — to realize that his 
father’s shoulders looked thin and angular; that 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


7 


his cheeks were pale, and his eyes, though kinder 
than ever, preoccupied and less sparkling; that his 
collars were looser about his neck than comfort 
required them to be. David often wondered 
whether his mother had noticed it, and if so what 
she thought about it. He did not wish to mention 
it first; if she was not worrying about it already, 
he was not going to put a new reason for anxiety 
into her head. 

66 Well, David,” said Dr. Ives in his usual cheer- 
ful voice, “ have you had a talk with your mother?” 

“ I could n’t tell him, Henry,” said Mrs. Ives 
plaintively. “ I ’ve left it for you to do.” 

“ Mother said something about my going away 
somewhere,” added David. 

Ralph looked from one to another while his 
round eyes grew rounder in wonder and concern. 

“Yes,” said Dr. Ives, evading his wife’s glance 
and speaking with great cheerfulness, “ I ’ve de- 
cided to send you away to boarding-school, David. 
To St. Timothy’s, in New Hampshire.” 

“ In six weeks,” added Mrs. Ives tearfully. 

David felt a thrill of exultation and excitement, 
and then, because of his mother’s sadness and his 
father’s forced cheerfulness, he felt sorry. Ralph 
sat open-mouthed and subdued. 


8 


DAVID IVES 


“Why am I going to St. Timothy’s, father?” 
David asked. 

“Just what I wanted to know!” said Mrs. Ives. 
“Hasn’t David been doing all right in high 
school?” 

“ Yes,” Dr. Ives admitted, “ he has. But I think 
that now he is ready for a change; it will be 
broadening and instructive. I think, moreover, 
that both he and Ralph will be the better for being 
separated for a time from each other. It will do 
David good to get out into a world of his own, 
and it will do Ralph good to take over some of the 
responsibilities at home that David has had. Those 
are some of the reasons.” 

Mrs. Ives shook her head forlornly. “I can’t 
see that they are sufficient.” 

“ Well,” said Dr. Ives, “ I want my boys to have 
the best there is — and to be the best there are. 
From all that I can ascertain, St. Timothy’s is one of 
the best schools in the country. David already 
knows what he wants to be. He feels that he has a 
bent for surgery; he means to make that his profes- 
sion. I should be glad to have him model his 
career on that of the best surgeon I know — Dr. 
Wallace. As far as I can I mean to give him every 
opportunity that Wallace had. Wallace went to 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


9 


St. Timothy’s School, and to Harvard College, and 
to the Harvard Medical School. So shall David.” 

“ But Dr. Wallace’s father was rich, probably, 
and you are not,” said Mrs. Ives. 

“ I feel able to meet all the necessary expenses, 
and I can trust David not to be extravagant.” 

“New Hampshire is so far away! And it will 
be so long before we see David again!” 

“We shall hope to see him in the Christmas 
vacation.” 

“Yes, of course. But I can’t help feeling that 
David will be leaving home for good; he will be 
coming back to us now only for visits! You don’t 
want to go, do you, David?” 

“ I don’t know, mother,” David said, torn by 
various impulses. “Yes, I think I do.” And then 
he jumped up and, going behind her chair, put 
his arm round her and his face down on hers and 
kissed her. 

That evening Dr. Ives had to go out on some 
professional calls; he chugged away in the shabby 
little second-hand automobile that he had bought 
three years before. “Some day, when all my 
patients pay their bills, I ’ll get a new machine,” 
he was accustomed to remark to the family. He 
also was accustomed to declare that he rather en- 
joyed tinkering the old rattletrap. 


10 


DAVID IVES 


Now David, sitting in the library and perusing 
the catalogue of St. Timothy’s School, suspected 
that for some time he had been the object of his 
father’s many economies. Turning over the pages, 
he resolved that he would justify his father’s faith 
in him, that he would work hard and not be ex- 
travagant, and that he would come home showing 
that he had profited by the opportunities given him 
by the family’s sacrifice. And as he turned the 
pages the thrill of eager anticipation grew stronger 
in him. He glanced over the long list of names — 
boys from all quarters of the country, boys even 
from far corners of the earth. David, who had 
never traveled more than forty miles from the city 
in which he had been born and brought up, and 
who had never known any boys except those in the 
immediate neighborhood of his home, felt a ting- 
ling of romance as he read the names. 

While he read Ralph sat quiet over a story- 
book, and Mrs. Ives, with a pile of mending in 
her lap, worked at intervals and at intervals gazed 
wistfully at her older boy. He was her favorite, 
though she felt guilty in admitting it even in her 
heart; Ralph had always been more thoughtless, 
more unmanageable, a more trying kind of boy. 
It made her feel quite helpless to think of dealing 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


11 


with Ralph alone after David had gone. But that 
was not the worst to which she must look forward, 
that was not the saddening thought. What weighed 
her down was, as she had said, the premonition 
that when David went away it would be really for 
good and all. It would be years and years before 
home would be more than a place to which he 
made visits. Perhaps what was now, and always 
had been, his home would never really be his home 
again. And his father and his mother, who had 
always been so near to him, would never be so 
near to him again. Tears filled her eyes and fell 
unnoticed while David and Ralph read; she wiped 
them away furtively and determined to be brave. 
Perhaps it was all for the best, and she would 
not begrudge anything that was best for David. 
But it seemed such a doubtful venture, — and 
David’s father did not look well, — but she was 
not going to imagine that any more; it produced 
such a heaviness about the heart. She was going 
to try to he cheerful; she had never been cheerful 
enough. 

She anticipated the usual rebelliousness and 
struggle when at nine o’clock she said, 44 Bed-time, 
Ralph.” 

“All right, mother.” To her astonishment he 


12 


DAVID IVES 


spoke with the utmost docility; he closed his book 
at once and came over and kissed her. With the 
same unusual docility he went across the room 
and kissed David. 64 1 ’m sorry you ’re going away, 
Dave,” he whispered, and then he fled upstairs. 

David looked at his mother. 

44 He ’s a pretty good kid,” he said. 44 He won’t 
give you much trouble — not more than I ’ve done.” 

“You’ve never given any trouble, David.” 

44 Have n’t I?” He sprang up and went over to 
sit beside her. 44 Then don’t let me begin doing 
it now. Stop looking so troubled about me. That ’s 
right, smile.” 

She did her best, remembering that she had 
resolved to be cheerful. 

Anyway, as the days passed and the time of 
David’s departure drew near there was one de- 
velopment on which his mother liked to dwell and 
from which she hoped and even dared to expect 
much. Dr. Ives had yielded to her persuasion and, 
as the first vacation that he had taken in years, 
was to accompany David on his journey. 44 A rest 
is all he needs,” his wife kept assuring herself. 
44 A rest and a change — and when he comes back 
I won’t have to worry about him any more.” Dr. 
Ives had wanted her to take the trip, too, but she 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


13 


had refused. She knew that he could ill afford 
such an additional expense, and besides there was 
Ralph to look after; no doubt Maggie was com- 
petent to care for him, and his Aunt Hattie would 
be willing to take him in, but Mrs. Ives felt that 
the absence of his father would give her the most 
favorable opportunity of getting on the right terms 
with her younger boy. His sense of chivalry would 
be more likely to awaken when he was not under 
the surveillance of a masculine disciplinary eye. 

David’s mother went with him to the shops and 
helped him to purchase his slender wardrobe. A 
careful purchaser she was, leading him from shop 
to shop in search of bargains, feeling with distrust- 
ful fingers the material of the suit at last selected, 
insisting on underwear of the thickest woolens and 
on pyjamas of flannel, for doubtless New Hamp- 
shire winters were even colder than those at home. 
David felt that he was rather old for his mother 
to be buying his clothes for him, — he was six- 
teen, — but he had not the heart to assert any 
independence in the matter, to intimate that he had 
outgrown the need of her guidance. 

Likewise he restrained the desire to intimate to 
Maggie that her criticism and comments were un- 
welcome. Maggie attacked him one day when he 
was alone in the library. 


14 


DAVID IVES 


“ What ’s all this, David, about your goin ’ away 
to boardin ’-school?” she asked truculently, stand- 
ing in the doorway with her hands on her hips. 

“Well, it’s true,” David answered. 

“ Ain’t there no good schools near home?” 

“Yes, but not so good.” 

“ Funny thing that nothing but the best is ever 
good enough for some folks.” 

David, disdaining to reply, held his book up in 
front of his eyes and pretended to read. 

“ It ’s none of my business,” continued Maggie in 
a somewhat more pacific tone, “but I think your 
pa and your ma both need looking after, and you ’d 
ought to stay home to do it. Of course what it 
means is, it’ll all fall on me; things always does.” 

“Nothing’s going to fall on you; what do you 
mean, Maggie?” 

“ Oh, it ’s all very well to talk. But everybody 
can see your pa’s been failin’ of late and is in 
for a spell of sickness, and your ma gets upset 
so easy it ’s always a matter of coaxin ’ and urgin ’ 
her along.” 

“Father’s all right except that he’s been work- 
ing too hard; a rest will fix him up,” David de- 
clared. “And mother’s all right, too, except that 
she worries.” 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


15 


46 Oh, yes, it ’s all all right,” Maggie agreed with 
gloomy significance. “All I can say is, they’re 
lucky to have me to fall back on. I can deal with 
trouble when it comes.” 

David disliked to admit to himself that this in- 
terview disturbed him. But there was no escape 
from the fact that it did have a depressing effect. 
He tried to assure himself that Maggie always de- 
lighted in forebodings of trouble, but in spite of 
that he was half the time wishing that he might 
withdraw from the adventure on which his father 
was launching him. Every day the expression in 
his mother’s eyes affected him as much as her tears 
could have done, every day he was troubled by 
his father’s haggard look. He had of course 
learned something about the burden in dollars 
and cents he was to be to the family, and he won- 
dered if there could really be wisdom in his 
father’s decision. “ It throws a big responsibility 
on me,” David thought gravely. 

He suspected that in some ways his father was 
an unpractical man and that he was often visionary 
in his enthusiasm. He had never forgotten how 
hurt he had felt once as a small boy when he had 
overheard his mother say to her sister, “ It ’s no 
use, Hattie 5 if Henry once has his mind set on a 


16 


DAVID IVES 


thing, the only thing to do is to give him his head.” 
David did not know what had prompted the remark, 
but he had not liked hearing his father criticized 
even by his mother. 

In those days he noticed in his father a nervous 
exuberance over the prospect, which, if it failed 
to quiet David’s doubts, served to convince him 
of the futility of questioning. Dr. Ives talked 
gayly of the interest and happiness David would 
find in his new surroundings and of the increased 
pleasure they would all take in his vacations, told 
Ralph that he must so conduct himself as to qualify 
for St. Timothy’s when he grew older, and declared 
that for himself merely looking forward to the 
trip East with David was making a new man of him. 

One morning Dr. Ives went downtown with 
David in the shabby little automobile to purchase 
the railway tickets. As they drew up to the curb 
a tall man in a gray suit came out of the ticket- 
office; he was about to step into a waiting limousine 
when Dr. Ives hailed him. 

“ 0 Dr. Wallace!” 

“ How are you, Dr. Ives?” Dr. Wallace nodded 
pleasantly and waited, for Dr. Ives clearly had 
something to say to him. 

David, following his father, looked with interest 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


17 


at the distinguished surgeon whose career was to 
be an example to him. Dr. Wallace was a younger 
and stronger man than Dr. Ives, and, so far as pros- 
perity of appearance was concerned, there was the 
same contrast between the two men as between the 
shabby runabout and the shining limousine. 

“Dr. Wallace,” said Dr. Ives, speaking eagerly, 
“ I won’t detain you a moment, but I want to in- 
troduce my son David to you. David’s going to St. 
Timothy’s; I know you ’re an old St. Timothy’s boy, 
and I thought you might be interested.” 

“ I am, indeed,” said Dr. Wallace, and he took 
David’s hand. “ What form do you expect to 
enter?” 

“ Fifth, I hope,” said David. 

“ That will give him two years there before he 
goes to Harvard,” said Dr. Ives. 

“ Going to Harvard, too, is he?” 

“Yes, and then to Harvard Medical School — 
following in your footsteps, you see, doctor.” 

“ That ’s very interesting, very interesting,” said 
Dr. Wallace. “ I must tell my boy to look you 
up; you know, I have a boy at St. Timothy’s; his 
second year; he ’ll be in the fifth form, too.” 

“ And he ’ll also be following in your footsteps, 
I suppose?” said Dr. Ives. 


18 


DAVID IVES 


“Not too closely, I hope,” Dr. Wallace laughed. 
“I’m very glad to have met you; I wish you the 
best of success.” He shook hands again with 
David and again with David’s father, then stepped 
briskly into his limousine and was whirled away. 

“ That was a stroke of luck,” remarked Dr. Ives. 
“Now you won’t be going to St. Timothy’s as if 
you didn’t know anybody. Young Wallace will 
be friendly with you and help you to get started 
right.” 

David accepted this as probable. He asked if 
Dr. Wallace was really so very remarkable as a 
surgeon. 

“ Oh, yes ; he ’s the ablest man we have,” replied 
Dr. Ives. 

“ I ’m sure he ’s not a bit better than you, father.” 

“ Oh, I ’m a surgeon only under stress of emer- 
gency and as a last resort. The less surgery a 
family doctor practices on his patients the better 
for the patients.” 

“Anyway, you could have been as good a sur- 
geon as Dr. Wallace if you ’d studied to be.” 

“Oh, we don’t know what we might be, given 
certain opportunities. That’s why I want you to 
have those opportunities — the best. So that you 
can go far ahead of me,” 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


19 


“ I guess I never could catch up with you. And 
I don’t care what you say, I think you’re way 
ahead of Dr. Wallace or any other doctor. I’m 
sure you do more for people and think less about 
what you can get out of them.” 

“ I shall have to think more about that now, I 
shall for a fact,” said Dr. Ives, chuckling good- 
humoredly. “ When you come home for the 
Christmas vacation, David, you’ll probably find 
me turned into a regular Shylock.” 

“You couldn’t be that, and mother isn’t the 
kind that could turn you into one. If only you had 
Maggie to manage you and get after patients — ” 

They both laughed. 

But in spite of all the brave little jokes, in spite 
of all the loving words and loving caresses, David’s 
last two days at home were painful to him and 
to the others of the family. He caught his mother 
shedding tears in secret; he felt her looking at him 
with a fondness that made him wretchedly uncom- 
fortable; he received a mournful consideration 
from Ralph as disconcerting as it was novel; he 
could not help being depressed by the grim and 
relentless quality of Maggie’s disapproval. In such 
an atmosphere Dr. Ives desperately maintained 
cheerfulness, assumed gayety and light-hearted- 


20 


DAVID IVES 


ness, and professed undoubting faith in David’s 
adventure and enthusiasm over his own share in it. 

The bustle and confusion of packing lasted far 
into the evening; Mrs. Ives hurried now to the as- 
sistance of David, now of his father; Ralph 
prowled round in self-contained excitement until 
long after his bedtime. It was long after every 
one’s bedtime when David finally got into bed; and 
then his mother came and knelt beside him and 
besought him to think often of home and to do 
always as his father would have him do. Together 
they said their prayers as they had done every 
night when David was a little boy and as they had 
not done before for a long time; and it made 
David feel that he was a little boy again, and that 
he was glad to be so, this once, this last time in 
his life. 

The next morning the expressman came for the 
trunks before breakfast; and before breakfast, too, 
Maggie showed her forgiving spirit by presenting 
David with a silk handkerchief bearing an ornate 
letter 64 D ” embroidered in one corner. After 
breakfast while the family waited in the front hall, 
David bade Maggie good-bye, and for one who 
was usually so outspoken and fluent, Maggie was 
strangely inarticulate, saying merely, over and 


FAREWELL TO ROSEWOOD 


21 


over, 66 Well good-bye, David, I ’m sure; good-bye, 
I ’m sure.” 

They took the trolley car to the station, and there 
after the trunks had been checked they all went 
aboard the train. Mrs. Ives and Ralph sat facing 
David and his father, and occasionally some one 
said something — just to show it was possible to 
speak. David said, “Ralph, you’re to take care 
of mother while father’s gone,” and Ralph said, 
“ I guess I know that.” Dr. Ives looked at his watch 
and said, “Well, Helen, it’s time for you and 
Ralph to get off the train.” 

That was the hardest moment of all — the last 
kisses, the last embraces, the last words. 

Then, for just a few moments longer, David 
gazed through the window at Ralph and his mother 
on the platform — Ralph looking up solemn and 
round-eyed, his mother smiling bravely and wink- 
ing her eyelids fast to stem back the tears. For 
a few moments only; then the train started, and the 
little woman and the little boy were left behind. 


CHAPTER II 


A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR 

F OR an hour Dr. Ives had been pursuing his sol- 
itary explorations of the grounds and build- 
ings of St. Timothy’s School. He and David had 
interviewed the rector, Dr. Davenport, had been 
shown the room in the middle school which David 
was to occupy and in which his trunk was already 
awaiting him, and had inquired the way to the 
auditorium, where David was now taking the ex- 
aminations that were to determine his position. 

For an hour Dr. Ives had been alone, and he was 
beginning to realize what the loneliness of his 
journey home would be, what the gap in the 
family life would be. From the time when he and 
David had started East they had been together 
every moment; his happiness in the companionship 
of his son and the novelty of the vacation journey- 
ing had kept his spirits buoyant; but now the 
shadows had begun to come over his imagination. 
He had taken pleasure in viewing the wide playing 
fields and the circumambient cinder track and in 


A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR 23 


thinking of his boy happy and active there on 
sunny afternoons. He had taken pleasure in look- 
ing in upon the rows of desks in the great school- 
room, on the empty benches in the recitation rooms, 
on the quiet, booklined alcoves in the library, and 
in thinking of his boy passing in those places quiet, 
studious, faithful hours. He had enjoyed visiting 
the gymnasium and picturing his boy performing 
feats there on the flying rings and taking part with 
the others in brave and strengthening exercises. 
He had stood by the margin of the pond and in 
imagination had seen canoe races and boys splash- 
ing and swimming; even while he looked the season 
changed, and he had seen them speeding and skim- 
ming on the ice while their skates hummed and 
their hockey sticks rang, and always his boy had 
been foremost in his eye. 

But now, though he had walked neither far nor 
fast, Dr. Ives found himself suddenly overcome 
with fatigue; he was near the study building and 
he sat down on the steps to rest. He grew tired so 
easily! He sat still for some time and was just 
rising to his feet when the door behind him opened 
and a tall man of about his own age, with a gray 
beard and heavily rimmed spectacles, came down 
the steps, glanced at him and said : 


24 


DAVID IVES 


“You’re a stranger here, I think. Can I be of 
any assistance to you?” 

“ No, thank you,” said Dr. Ives. “ I have a 
son in that building yonder, taking an examination. 
I ’m just killing time till he comes out.” 

“ In that case would n’t you like me to show you 
round the place? I ’ve been a master here for 
nearly forty years.” 

“To tell you the truth,” Dr. Ives answered, 
“ I ’ve been wandering round till I ’m played out. 
I was just on the point of going to the library in 
the hope of finding a chair.” 

“I can offer you a more comfortable one; my 
rooms are in that yellow house — just beyond those 
trees. I ’m at leisure for the rest of the day, and 
I shall be glad of your company. My name is 
Dean.” 

In Mr. Dean’s pleasant rooms Dr. Ives was 
soon unburdening himself; the elderly master’s 
sympathy and friendliness invited confidences. So 
in a way did the character of the rooms, about 
which there was nothing formal or austere. They 
were the quarters of a scholar; although book- 
shelves crowded the walls, the library overflowed 
the space allotted; books were piled on the floor 
and on the table and on the chairs — books of all 


A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR 25 


descriptions and in all languages, books in work- 
aday bindings and in no bindings at all, ponderous 
great volumes and learned little pamphlets, works 
of poets and novelists, historians and essayists, phi- 
losophers and naturalists, from the days of ancient 
Greece to the end of the nineteenth century. From 
the depth of the big leather chair in which Dr. 
Ives found himself he looked across a massive 
oak table covered with papers, books, and pam- 
phlets in a bewildering confusion and saw the 
thoughtful, kindly face of his host; he felt that Mr. 
Dean was a man on whose courtesy, consideration, 
and wisdom any boy or parent might depend. 
It was the master’s eyes that were so assuring, 
so inspiring, so communicative — gray eyes that 
sparkled and twinkled and watched and seemed even 
to listen; the spectacles behind which they worked 
deprived them of no part of their expressiveness; 
the smile that hardly stirred in Mr. Dean’s beard 
sprang rollicking and frolicsome from his eyes. 
They were eyes that seemed to miss nothing and to 
interpret everything wisely, kindly, humorously. So 
in a little while Dr. Ives was confiding his hopes 
and dreams about his son, and some — not all — 
of the misgivings that he had never breathed to 
his wife. 


26 


DAVID IVES 


44 Of course,” he said, 44 1 realize that probably 
most of the boys here are the sons of rich men — 
rich at least by comparison with me. And for 
some time I wondered if it were altogether wise or 
fair to David to put him into a school where, finan- 
cially, anyway, he would be at a disadvantage.” 

44 It all depends upon the boy,” said Mr. Dean. 
44 Not all our boys are rich — though most of them 
are. The spirit of the place is to take a fellow 
for what he is. If your boy is the sort who is 
simple and straightforward — as I have no doubt 
he is — he has nothing to fear from association 
with the sons of the rich. Is he an athlete?” 

44 He runs — he ’s a pretty good quarter-miler. 
And he plays baseball. But he hasn’t any false 
notions of the importance of athletic success. 
You’ll find him a good student; he led his class 
at the high school.” 

44 We give a double welcome to every boy who 
comes with the reputation of being a good student; 
we have unfortunately a good many who have not 
been brought up to appreciate the importance of 
study.” 

44 David knows the importance of it. He knows 
that he’ll have to study in college and in the 
medical school, and the earlier he forms the habit 


A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR 27 


of work the better. Dr. Wallace, whom of course 
you know — I’ve said to David that Dr. Wallace 
couldn’t be what he is if he hadn’t early formed 
the habit of work.” 

“ I wish that his son would form it,” remarked 
Mr. Dean. “ Lester Wallace is not one of our 
hard workers.” 

“ No doubt he will develop ; otherwise he could 
hardly be his father’s son. Dr. Wallace is our 
most able and brilliant surgeon. Indeed, it ’s 
largely because I should like to get my boy started 
on a career similar to his that I have brought David 
to St. Timothy’s.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Dean, “I’ve had a good op- 
portunity to note the careers of those who have 
passed through the school. And, generally speak- 
ing, those whose after lives have been most cred- 
itable have been the boys who while they were 
at school received from their fathers the most 
careful, sane, and intelligent interest — not those 
whose fathers felt that boarding-school had taken 
a problem off their hands. A good many fathers 
do feel that. It’s an extraordinary thing, the 
number of intelligent, successful, wide-awake Am- 
ericans who do not seem to realize the importance 
of holding standards always before their sons.” 


28 


DAVID IVES 


“ I suppose,” Dr. Ives suggested, “ that the very 
successful and active men are too busy.” 

Mr. Dean shook his head. “I don’t think it’s 
that. A physician like yourself is probably much 
more busy and active than many of those eager, 
money-making men. No; the trouble with them is 
their egotism and ambition. They feel that their 
offspring derive importance and distinction from 
them, and they expect vaingloriously to shine in 
light reflected from their offspring. But there’s 
an interval when they regard their offspring as 
not much else than a nuisance, and for that interval 
they turn them over, body and soul, to a boarding- 
school to be developed into youths such as will 
shed luster on their parents. The school might 
possibly do it if there were no vacations, but three 
weeks at home at Christmas often undoes the good 
of the three preceding months at school.” 

“ You seem to be a pessimist about the value of 
home life for a boy.” 

“ No, not in the least. But I am a pessimist 
about the influences prevailing in the homes of 
some of our excessively solvent citizens. Boys of 
fifteen and sixteen go home and with other boys 
of the same age constitute a miniature aristocracy, 
a miniature society, that copies the vices and man- 


A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR 29 


nerisms and foppishness of the grown-up social 
aristocracy, and that is encouraged and even ed- 
ucated in all the vulgar, useless, expensive, and 
demoralizing details by this purblind aristocracy. 
I tell you, Dr. Ives, there are boys in this school 
that the school is struggling to save from the perni- 
cious influences to which they are exposed at home 
— but their fathers and mothers can’t be made to 
see it. Fortunately, there are not a great many 
of them. Our most common difficulty is with the 
boy whose father is too busy to give any thought 
to him, to stimulate him, or help him, or advise 
him. Well, it’s easy to see that your boy’s father 
is not that kind.” 

46 No,” said Dr. Ives. 46 David and I have always 
been too close to each other for that to happen.” 

44 You ’re starting home to-day?” 

44 Yes, I ’m just waiting round to see David 
again; my train leaves in a couple of hours.” 

44 The examinations close very soon. I will walk 
over to the building with you; I should like to 
meet your boy.” 

So it happened that on emerging from the test 
David found himself shaking hands with an elderly 
gentleman whose kindly eyes and pleasant voice 
won his liking. 


30 


DAVID IVES 


“He looks like the right sort,” said Mr. Dean, 
turning to Dr. Ives with a smile. “How did you 
find the examinations?” 

“ Not very hard,” replied David. 

“ Good; then you’ll be in the fifth form without 
a doubt; the Latin class will assist us to a better 
acquaintance. Good-bye, Dr. Ives; we ’ll take good 
care of your son.” 

Dr. Ives looked after the tall figure of the master 
as he swung away, gripping his stout cane by the 
middle, and said: 

“David, my boy, there’s a gentleman and a 
scholar. Be his friend, and let him be yours.” 

“ Yes, father,” David said obediently. 

They walked slowly to the building in which 
David had his room, climbed the stairs, and sat 
down by the window. Dr. Ives looked out in 
silence for a time, wishing to fix in his mind the 
view that was to become so familiar to his son — 
the grassplots bounded by stone posts and white 
rail fences, the roadways, lined with maple trees, 
the clustered red-brick buildings above which rose 
the lofty chapel tower in the sunlight of the warm 
September day. 

“This should be a good place to study in, 
David,” he said. “It ’s in the quiet places that 
a man can prepare himself best.” 



HOW DID YOU FIND THE EXAMINATIONS? ” 






































* 








, 






































A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR 31 


“ I don’t know how quiet it will be to-morrow,” 
said David, “when about two hundred and fifty 
old boys arrive.” 

“ Oh, yes, it will be lively enough at times, and 
I ’m glad of that, too. And you ’ll go in for all 
the activities there are; I needn’t urge that. The 
thing I do want to emphasize, David, is the import- 
ance of making full use of all the quiet hours.” 

“ I will do my best, father.” 

“And you will remember, of course, that it’s 
more necessary for you than for most of the fellows 
you will associate with to practice economy.” 

“Yes, father, I shall be careful.” 

There was silence, and during it they saw a 
motor-car turn in at the gateway and a moment 
later draw up before the steps of the building. 
They both knew what it meant, yet each shrank 
from declaring it to the other. 

“Write to us often, David,” said Dr. Ives. 
“You will be always in our hearts; we shall be 
thinking and talking of you every day. Don’t 
forget us.” 

David found himself unable to speak. He shook 
his head and squeezed his father’s hand. They sat 
again in silence for a little while. 

“Well, my boy — ” said Dr. Ives. 


32 


DAVID IVES 


Hand in hand they went along the corridor and 
down the stairs. Outside the building the father 
turned and took his son into his arms. That last 
kiss became one of David’s sweetest and saddest 
memories. 

It was surprising even to himself how soon he 
fitted into place. His seat in chapel, his desk in 
the schoolroom, his locker in the gymnasium, his 
place in the dining-hall — at the end of a week 
he thought of them as if they had always been his. 
In the same short time he was recognized as the 
fellow who was likely to lead his division of the 
fifth form in scholarship. His uncomfortable zeal 
for study and his tendency to forge instantly to 
the head of his class, regardless of being a “new 
kid,” were not conducive to the attainment of pop- 
ularity. So, although in superficial ways the school 
soon became a second home to him, he felt that 
in the things that counted he remained a stranger. 

He was disappointed in his expectation that 
Lester Wallace would come forward and welcome 
him. When in Mr. Dean’s Latin class he first 
heard Wallace called on to recite, he glanced 
round in eager interest. A stocky, smiling, good- 
natured-looking youth was slowly rising to his 
feet; his voice, as he began to translate, was lazy, 


A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR 33 


yet had a pleasant tone; his manner when he came 
to a full stop in the middle of an involved sentence 
that had entangled him suggested that he was 
humorously amused by a puzzle rather than con- 
centrating his mind on the solution. He acquiesced 
without rancor in Mr. Dean’s suggestion that he 
had better sit down. Later when David was called 
on to recite, he wondered whether Wallace was 
looking at him with any interest; he wondered 
whether the name of Ives had any significance for 
Wallace. Apparently it had not, for after the 
hour Wallace passed David on the stairs without 
pausing to speak. 

When the noon recess came some of the fellows, 
instead of dispersing to the dormitories, lingered 
in groups outside the study building. Among them 
was Wallace, and with the faint hope that Wallace 
might now come up to him, David lingered, too. 
He was too shy to make any advances to one who 
was an 44 old ” boy, too proud to court the friend- 
ship of one who was obviously well known and 
popular; yet Wallace, with his pleasant, lazy voice, 
twinkling eyes, and leisurely air of good nature, 
attracted him. While he stood looking on, a girl, 
perhaps fifteen years old, came through the rectory 
gate just across the road ; she was tossing a baseball 


34 


DAVID IVES 


up and catching it and now and then thumping it 
into the baseball glove that she wore on her left 
hand. She was slender and graceful, and the smile 
with which she responded to the general snatching 
off of caps seemed to David sweet and fascinating; 
her large straw hat prevented him from determin- 
ing how pretty she was, but he was sure about her 
smile and her rosy cheeks and her merry eyes. 

“Here you are, Ruth!” Lester Wallace held up 
his hands. 

She threw the ball to him, straight and swift, 
with a motion very like a boy’s, and yet oddly, 
indescribably feminine. He returned it, and she 
caught it competently. 

“Isn’t any one going to play scrub?” she asked. 
At once Wallace cried, “Yes; one!” She cried, 
“Two!” — and they danced about while the others 
shouted for places. When they had all moved off 
toward the upper school with the girl and Wallace 
in the lead, David followed, partly out of curiosity 
and partly also out of reluctance to dismiss quickly 
such a pleasant person from his sight. 

He watched the game of scrub behind the upper 
school and was struck by the girl’s skill, her free- 
dom and grace of action, her fearlessness in facing 
and catching hard-hit balls, and also by the rather 


A GENTLEMAN AND A SCHOLAR 35 


more than brotherly courtesy of all the fellows; 
they seemed to try to give her the best chances and 
yet never to condescend too much. Apparently she 
and Wallace were especially good friends; she re- 
proached him slangily, “0 Lester, you lobster!” 
and he was often comforting or encouraging — 
“Take another crack at it, Ruth!” “Beat it, Ruth, 
beat it!” and once in rapture at a stop that she 
had made, “Oh, puella pulchrissima!” 

Looking on, David felt there was another person 
in the school besides Wallace that he would very 
much like to know. He ventured to ask a boy 
standing by who the girl was. 

“The rector’s daughter — Ruth Davenport. 
Peach, isn’t she?” 

“Yes, peach,” said David. 

He continued to look on until the ringing of the 
quarter bell for luncheon put an end to the game. 


CHAPTER III 


HOSTILITIES 


FTERWARDS, looking back upon those early 



jl \ days at St. Timothy’s, David sometimes won- 
dered whether he had possessed any individuality 
whatever. It seemed to him that he had been merely 
a submerged unit that had brief periods of con- 
sciousness, — of homesickness, of pleasure, of suf- 
fering, — but that for the most part was swept along 
on its curiously insensate way. He remembered the 
sharpness of contrast between the day when he 
first saw St. Timothy’s and the day when the 
school formally opened — the quiet, depopulated 
aspect of one and die bustling and populous activity 
of die other. From that opening day life seemed 
to flow in currents all about him and to drag him 
on with it, passive, bewildered sometimes, some- 
times struggling, sometimes swimming blithely, 
but always in a current diat bore him on and on. 
Each morning it began, with the streams of boys 
flowing at the same hour toward the same spot, 
from the dormitories to the chapel; then from the 


HOSTILITIES 


37 


chapel to the schoolroom; finally from the school- 
room back to the dormitories again; afterwards to 
the playgrounds, where they trickled off into a lot 
of separate bubbling little springs, only to be 
sluiced together again at the distant ringing of 
a bell and sent streaming back to the school. 

Gradually David made friends; gradually, too, 
he came into hostile relations with certain fellows. 
Chief among his friends was another new boy and 
fifth-former, Clarence Monroe, whom he sat next 
to at table. They were, as it happened, the only 
new boys at that table, and their newness might of 
itself have bound them together. But they quickly 
discovered sympathetic qualities — love of reading 
and of the same authors, keenness for baseball and 
for track athletics, and, in the circumstances most 
uniting of all, kindred antipathies. For the sixth- 
formers at the table, of whom there were several, 
seemed to feel that their sanctity was invaded by 
the two 46 new kids ” and were disposed to be offish 
and censorious. One of them in particular, Hubert 
Henshaw, who sat opposite David, made himself 
disagreeable. He was apparently a leader in cer- 
tain ways. 

64 The glass of fashion and the mould of form,” 
commented Monroe satirically to David. They 


38 DAVID IVES 

were reading Shakespeare in the English class, and 
David replied: 

“ Yes, perfumed like a milliner. I think it ’s all 
right for a fellow to keep anything up his sleeve 
except his handkerchief.” 

“I always feel there’s something wrong with 
a fellow that always has his socks match his neck- 
tie,” said Monroe. 

But though they indulged themselves thus freely 
in shrewd comment when they were alone together 
and revenged themselves in imagination by such 
criticism for the slights and indignities put upon 
them, they could not resent effectively the treatment 
that Henshaw and, under his leadership, the others 
administered to them. There were frequent com- 
ments on the ignoble character of the fifth form 
and the scrubby quality of its new kids. Henshaw 
occasionally expressed the opinion that the school 
was deteriorating: “There was no such rabble of 
new kids when we were young.” He went on one 
day to say, looking meanwhile over David’s head: 
“Many of them even seem not to have decent 
clothes. Has any one seen more than two or three 
new kids with the slightest pretense to gentility?” 

David recognized the thrust at him and his 
clothes and said, “ I ’ve seen one sixth-former with 
plenty of pretense.” 


HOSTILITIES 


39 


It was not a smart retort, but it caused the blood 
to gather in Henshaw’s forehead, and for the time 
being it silenced him. But the episode rankled in 
David’s mind. It was the first intimation he had 
received that the discrepancies of which he him- 
self had been aware between his dress and that of 
most of the fellows had been noticed by the others. 
No one but Henshaw had been unkind enough to 
comment; even Henshaw’s friends at the table had 
looked uncomfortable when he made the remark; 
but David, thinking of the pains and the careful 
thought and the enforced economy of expenditure 
with which his mother had assisted him to purchase 
his clothes, and of the satisfaction that she had 
taken in their appearance, was wounded not merely 
in his pride but in his affection. From that mo- 
ment he hated Henshaw. 

It disappointed him to learn, as by observation 
he soon did learn, that Henshaw, though a sixth- 
former, was a friend of Wallace’s. They were often 
together, walking from the dormitory to the chapel 
or lounging in the dormitory hall. Their intimacy 
was explained to David when one evening while 
he was sitting in the hall waiting for the dinner 
bell Wallace came up and said: 

“Hello, Ives; my cousin, Huby Henshaw, tells 


40 


DAVID IVES 


me that you come from my town. I wish I ’d 
known it earlier.” 

He seated himself beside David and continued 
with cheerful geniality: 

“ How are you getting on? I know you are a 
shark in lessons, of course; all right otherwise? ” 

“ Pretty fair, thanks.” 

“ Funny I didn’t know about you till Huby hap- 
pened to mention it. Whereabouts do you live — 
what part of the town? How did you happen to 
come here?” 

“ In a way, because of your father,” David an- 
swered. “My father is a doctor in Rosewood, 
and he wants me to be a surgeon like yours. He 
thought that, since your father came here to school, 
I had better come here, too.” 

“ I must write and tell dad about it: he ’ll be aw- 
fully pleased. I guess he ’ll think you ’re more of 
a credit to him than I am.” 

“ Oh, I guess not,” said David. Then, prompted 
by Wallace’s friendliness, he went on to tell of his 
meeting with Dr. Wallace and of hoping that 
Wallace would come up to him — just as he had 
done. 

“ Dad forgot all about it,” said Wallace. “ I ’m 
glad you told me. You room in the north wing, 
don’t you?” 


HOSTILITIES 


41 


“Yes” 

“ I ’m in the south. Come and see me sometime.” 

Apparently Henshaw had not poisoned Wallace’s 
mind, whether he had tried to do so or not, and 
for his cousin’s sake David was for a little while 
more kindly disposed toward Henshaw. 

But the era of good feeling could not last. Two 
days later, as David and Monroe were passing 
after breakfast from the dining-room into the outer 
hall, Henshaw thrust his way up to them. 

“ Ives,” he said, “ we ’ve all got mighty sick of 
that necktie. Is it the only one you have?” 

“ Oh, shut up, Hube! ” It was Wallace, at Hen- 
shaw’s side, who spoke; even in the stupefaction 
of his anger David saw that on Wallace’s face 
a look of concern was overspreading its habitual 
good nature; Wallace was plucking at his cousin’s 
sleeve. “Shut up, Hube; you make me tired!” 

“ If you sat at our table, that necktie would 
make you tired. What ’s the reason that you never 
make a change, Ives? Is it your only one?” 

David’s eyes were hard and glittering. With a 
suddenness that startled every one he gave Henshaw 
a resounding slap on the cheek with his open hand. 
Henshaw staggered from the blow and stood for 
an instant, blinking, gathering pugnacity, while his 


42 


DAVID IVES 


cheek showed the livid marks of David’s fingers. 
Before he could retaliate, Mr. Dean was sweeping 
the crowd aside and exclaiming in a stern voice, 
“ Henshaw, Ives, what ’s this? ” 

They both looked at him, silent, equally defiant. 
David felt that he could justify himself and that 
he must not — a feeling that intensified his bitter- 
ness. Why should an act prompted by righteous 
indignation disgrace and discredit him before the 
man who had been ready to befriend him? 

“You may go now.” Mr. Dean’s eyes were as 
stern as his voice. 

The two principals in the row were escorted by a 
crowd out of the door and down the steps. At 
the bottom Henshaw turned and said to David, 
“You’ve got to fight me for this.” 

“It will be a pleasure,” David answered bit- 
terly. 

Meanwhile Wallace and Monroe had remained 
behind, close to Mr. Dean. Wallace was the first 
to speak. 

“ Mr. Dean,” he said, “ I hope you won’t report 
Ives. He simply had to slap Huby’s face.” 

“Why?” 

“Huby insulted him.” 

“ Henshaw ’s always insulting him,” broke in 


HOSTILITIES 


43 


Monroe. “At the table he’s always saying nasty 
things. Ives couldn’t stand it any longer, Mr. 
Dean.” 

“ What was the remark that provoked the blow?” 

Wallace repeated it as he remembered it; Mon- 
roe’s version was essentially the same. 

“I am glad to have your evidence,” said Mr. 
Dean. “ However, there is no question that Ives 
infringed the rules, and for that he will have to 
be punished.” 

“ It isn’t fair!” protested Monroe. 

“Possibly not. Sometimes it is necessary to 
be unfair in the interests of discipline. At any 
rate, you both may feel that you have done Ives 
and me a service by telling me the facts in the 
case.” 

Wallace and Monroe alike wondered what the 
service had been when after chapel they heard 
David’s name read out on the list of moral delin- 
quents for the day: “Ives, disorder in dormitory, 
one sheet.” That meant an hour of work that after- 
noon on Latin lines. 

David, hearing it, flushed with mortification. 
So Mr. Dean had chosen to judge him harshly. It 
was natural enough; so far as Mr. Dean had been 
aware, there were no mitigating circumstances. 


44 


DAVID IVES 


His thoughts wandered from his books that 
morning. He continued to make creditable recita- 
tions when called on, but at other times he did his 
work listlessly and with many pauses. He was not 
afraid to fight Henshaw; he wanted to fight him; 
he wanted to administer a punishment more severe 
than that one resounding slap on the face. And 
yet he hated fighting; he had never engaged in a 
fight at the high school; he remembered the most 
savage fight there that he had ever seen, how he 
had stood by, fascinated and yet disgusted, too, 
by the blazing fury in the combatants’ eyes, their 
dishevelment, their blood-marked faces, the animal 
wrath with which they mauled and grunted and 
battered. He had been disgusted by it all, by 
his own interest in the spectacle, by the gloating 
eyes of the other bystanders. It revolted him now 
to think of presenting such a spectacle himself; 
and yet he knew that unless Henshaw came to him 
and apologized he would fight him as long as either 
of them could stand. 

In the five minutes’ intermission before the Latin 
class Wallace and Monroe came and told him of 
their interview with Mr. Dean. That cheered him ; 
so did Wallace’s remark: “ Henshaw ’s my cousin, 
but he makes me awfully tired at times. I ’m with 
you and not with him in this.” 


HOSTILITIES 


45 


At the end of the Latin recitation when David 
was going out Mr. Dean said, “ Ives, one moment, 
please.” David stopped while the master gathered 
up books and exercises. “ If you ’re going up to 
the dormitory, I ’ll walk along with you,” said Mr. 
Dean. And as they walked along the corridor he 
asked, “Where did you get your feeling for the 
language?” 

“ For Latin? I did n’t know I had it.” 

“Oh, yes, you have, to quite a marked degree. 
I hope that you ’ll continue to cultivate the language 
— not, like so many, abandon it at the first op- 
portunity. There are very few persons nowadays 
who read Latin for pleasure — with pleasure. You 
will be able to do it if you keep on, for you have 
the feeling for the language. It will help you in 
acquiring other languages.” 

They passed out of the door, and then Mr. Dean 
said abruptly: 

“No doubt it seems harsh to you that I should 
be punishing you alone for the disorder this 
morning. Well, discipline often must stand on 
technicalities. Yours was the only visible breach; 
so you have to suffer. I want to say, however, 
that I realize there are occasions when self-re- 
spect, to vindicate itself, must defy rules — and 


46 


DAVID IVES 


this appears to have been one of those occasions. 
If Henshaw affords you the opportunity, I trust 
you will complete his punishment. Make it sub- 
stantial.” 

He shook hands with David quite solemnly and 
then turned aside up the path leading to his house. 

The talk put new cheerfulness into David’s heart. 
Mr. Dean understood and sympathized and was 
still his friend. And fighting was just one of those 
unpleasant things that you had to do now and then 
in life, and there was no use in letting yourself 
get disgusted at the thought of it. 

He felt so much better in his mind that at the 
luncheon table he turned back Henshaw’s scowl 
with a cheerfully ignoring glance and devoted him- 
self with unconcern to his friend Monroe until 
Truesdale, the sixth-former who sat on his left, 
said: 

“ Henshaw wants me to tell you he ’ll meet you 
this afternoon back of the sawmill at three o’clock.” 

“He’ll have to make it half -past three,” David 
replied. “ I have lines until then.” 

Truesdale glanced across the table at Henshaw, 
who nodded. 

“All right; half -past three,” Truesdale said. 
“ Don’t bring a crowd.” 


HOSTILITIES 47 

“I shan’t bring anybody but Monroe here,” 
David answered. 

“You fellows will probably collect the whole 
sixth form,” said Monroe, whose pugnacity was 
roused even more than David’s. 

“Don’t get excited, little one,” replied Trues- 
dale. “All we care about is to see fair play.” 

After luncheon Monroe walked with David to 
the study building, where David for an hour was 
to perform his task of penmanship. 

“ Are you pretty good with your fists?” Monroe 
asked. 

“ I have no special reason to think so,” David 
answered. “But I guess I can hit as hard as he 
can.” 

“ If you ’re not much on boxing, you ’ll have to 
stand up to him and take what you get until you 
can put in enough good cracks to finish him.” 
Monroe spoke with a certain satisfaction in the 
prospect of a sanguinary encounter. He was a 
freckled -faced, red-haired, snub-nosed boy; his blue 
eyes were sparkling and snapping with expectancy. 

“I’m not worrying much,” David answered. 
“He may lick me or I may lick him, but either 
way I guess he will regret having brought it on 
himself. And that ’s the main thing.” 


48 


DAVID IVES 


“ Sure,” said Monroe. “ But lick him.” 

They parted at the door of the study. Monroe 
assured David that he would meet him there at a 
little before half -past three o’clock. 

When David finally emerged, he found Monroe 
waiting outside and Wallace again passing a ball 
with the rector’s daughter. 

“ I ’ve got to stop now, Ruth ; I have a date,” 
Wallace said. 

She put the ball into the pocket of her leather 
coat and drew off her glove. Then she greeted 
David with a nod and a smile. 

“You know Ives, don’t you, Ruth? And Mon- 
roe?” Wallace performed the belated introduction. 

“ Oh, yes, I know everybody.” She shook hands 
with each of them. “Your name’s Clarence, and 
yours is David. Oh, don’t you want to have a game 
of scrub?” 

She looked from one to another with hopeful, 
boyish eyes. Wallace was the ready-tongued one 
of the three. “ Sorry, Ruth, but we have a date to 
go for a walk — going to meet some fellows in 
the woods.” 

“ Oh!” Her voice was regretful. “ Well, good- 
bye.” 

The boys touched their caps to her as she turned 
away; David glanced back at her remorsefully. 


HOSTILITIES 


49 


“She’s a pretty good kid,” Wallace remarked. 
“ Sort of hard luck on her; there are no other girls 
of her age round here for her to play with. She ’s 
very decent about not butting in; fellows can’t 
always be having a girl round.” 

“ No, you bet not,” agreed Monroe, though like 
David he had cast sheepish backward glances. 

As for David, the sight of the girl had revived 
the sense of loathing for the brutalities of battle 
that Mr. Dean’s cheerful words of encouragement 
had aided him temporarily to suppress. He walked 
on silently, thinking how that girl would hate him 
if she knew what he was about to do. His mood 
again became one of sullen revengefulness against 
Henshaw, whose behavior had forced the situation 
upon him. 

He and his friends entered the pine woods that 
bordered the pond behind the gymnasium. Soon 
they passed beyond sight of the school buildings; 
they walked on until they emerged from the quiet 
woods upon a hillside crowned with a decrepit 
apple orchard; they climbed a hill and followed 
a path that led them into a thicket of birch and 
oak; and at last they came out into an open space 
behind a disused sawmill. There seven or eight 
fellows, among them Henshaw, were waiting. 


50 


DAVID IVES 


One of the sixth-formers, Fred Bartlett, who 
had played end on the school football team the 
preceding year, stepped forward. 

“ I ’ve been asked to referee this scrap,” he said. 
“Any objection, Ives?” 

David shook his head. 

“Two-minute rounds. Get ready now, both of 
you; strip.” 

Ruth had stood with a puzzled look in her eyes 
gazing after David and Wallace and Monroe as they 
entered the path into the woods. A few minutes 
before, a group of her sixth-form friends had 
passed that way and to her friendly inquiry 
whither they were bound had, like Wallace and 
Monroe, returned vague, evasive answers. On an 
afternoon ideal for games it seemed to Ruth in- 
comprehensible that so many fellows should be 
going for a walk. She had not been brought up in 
a boarding-school without acquiring wisdom in the 
ways of boys, and when another group of fifth- 
formers slipped by and entered the path into the 
woods her suspicions were aroused. 

Harry Carson, captain of the school eleven and 
the most influential and popular fellow in St. 
Timothy’s, came sauntering down from the upper 


HOSTILITIES 


51 


school with his roommate, John Porter. They took 
off their caps as they passed Ruth and then turned 
into the path that all the others had followed. 

Ruth formed a sudden, courageous resolve. 

“0 Harry!” she called. “Won’t you wait a 
moment, please?” 

Carson turned and came back toward her, and 
she advanced to meet him. 

“Why is everybody going into the woods this 
afternoon?” 

“ Is every one?” said Carson. 

“Yes, I think it must be that there’s going to 
be a fight. Isn’t that it, Harry?” 

“ What put such an idea as that into your head?” 

“ I just feel it, and I know it from the way you 
ask that question. I think a fight is perfectly 
horrid. Won’t you stop it?” 

“ Sometimes when there ’s bad blood between 
two fellows the best thing is to let them fight it out.” 

“Who are the fellows?” 

“ It would hardly be fair for me to tell.” 

“I suppose it wouldn’t. But fighting seems 
such a stupid and senseless way of settling a differ- 
ence. And it ’s just as likely to settle it the wrong 
way as the right way. I wish you ’d stop this fight, 
Harry.” 


52 


DAVID IVES 


46 1 have n’t any authority to stop it.” 

“ They would n’t fight if you told them they 
weren’t to do it. Why, they wouldn’t fight if 
even I told them they weren’t to do it!” cried 
Ruth with sudden conviction. Her eyes flashed 
as she added: “If you won’t give me your word 
that you’ll stop it, I’ll go into the woods myself 
and find those boys and stop them.” 

“No, that wouldn’t do at all, Ruth,” said Carson 
anxiously. 

“ I will, unless you promise.” 

“ I ’ll do what I can.” 

“Good for you! And do hurry!” 

Carson turned away and rejoined his compan- 
ion, to whom he reported the conversation. 

“The girl’s more or less right,” said Porter. 
“ Henshaw ought to be made by the crowd to apol- 
ogize to Ives; it oughtn’t to be necessary for 
Ives to fight him. I ’m with you in what ever 
you do.” 

Carson and Porter came into the open space be- 
hind the sawmill just as the two combatants, 
stripped to the waist, stood up to face each other. 
Carson broke rudely through the circle of eager 
onlookers and shoved his heavy bulk between the 
two gladiators. 


HOSTILITIES 


53 


“It’s all off,” he said, addressing Henshaw 
rather more than David. “If you fellows have 
so much energy and fight to get rid of get out 
and play football. One of you owes the other 
an apology, and he knows mighty well that he 
does. When he makes it there will be no occasion 
for anything further.” 

“Oh, let them go to it, Harry!” cried a dis- 
appointed spectator. “ It ’ll do them good.” 

“I’ll fight anybody that tries to make them 
fight,” replied Carson belligerently, and the crowd 
laughed. “I’ll fight them if they try to fight,” 
he added. “ And I ’ll say that one of these two 
fellows, if he doesn’t apologize to the other for 
his insulting remarks, deserves a licking — whether 
he gets it or not.” 

David spoke up crisply, “ I have nothing to apol- 
ogize for.” 

There was a moment’s silence, and then Henshaw 
said in a rather subdued voice: “I have. I beg 
your pardon, Ives. I was insulting, and you had 
a right to resent it.” 

David put out his hand, Henshaw took it, and 
Carson administered to each of them a loud and 
stinging clap on the bare back, which drew an 


54 DAVID IVES 

“Ow!” from Henshaw and a delighted guffaw 
from the crowd. 

The two participants in the bloodless encounter 
put on their clothes, the meeting broke up, and in 
groups of twos and threes the fellows took their 
way back to the school. 

Ruth came out of the rectory as David and Mon- 
roe and Wallace were going by. 

“Why, you weren’t gone very long on your 
walk, were you?” she said. 

“Well, no,” Wallace answered. “We decided 
we’d do something else, after all.” 

At that moment Carson and a group of sixth- 
form friends, among them Henshaw, came up. 

“ I have the honor to report, Ruth,” said Carson, 
“that I fulfilled orders. I am the great pacif- 
icator.” He suddenly grabbed Henshaw by the 
collar with his right hand and David by the collar 
with his left. “ I have the honor to restore to you 
one Huby Henshaw of the sixth form and one 
David Ives of the fifth, unscathed, unscratched, 
unharmed.” 

“Good boy!” exclaimed Ruth. Her eyes 
sparkled with amusement, laughter rose from the 
crowd, and David and Henshaw stood blushing and 
grinning foolishly. 


HOSTILITIES 


55 


“You certainly do look like a pair of sillies,” 
said Ruth. “ But you might be looking even worse 
— and you’ve got me as well as Harry Carson to 
thank that you are n’t. Come in now, and I ’ll give 
you all some tea.” 


CHAPTER IV 


FRIENDSHIPS 

D AVID learned that the handicap track meet 
held every autumn by the Pythians and Co- 
rinthians would take place in the latter part of 
October. He entered his name for the quarter- 
mile as a representative of the Pythians. 

He found that he had outgrown the running 
shoes that he had worn in the spring when he had 
been the 44 crack ” quarter-miler of the high school. 
So he put on his tennis 44 sneakers ” and practiced 
daily on the track in those. Most of the candidates 
for the track meet proved to be very casual in their 
training; they were nearly all out trying for 
a place on one of the Pythian or Corinthian foot- 
ball elevens, and that meant that they had to do 
their track work in the half-hour recess before 
luncheon or on occasions when they were excused 
from football. There was no regular coaching for 
them; Bartlett, the Pythian captain, and Carson, 
the Corinthian, were alike devoting their chief 
energies to football, but occasionally found time to 


FRIENDSHIPS 


57 


supervise the work of their candidates, and more 
often Mr. Dean, though superannuated so far as 
active participation in athletics was concerned, 
gave hints and advice out of a historic past. 

Among those who were playing football on the 
Corinthian eleven was Wallace. He told David, 
however, that he meant to enter the quarter-mile, 
too, and that he was coming out a couple of days 
before the meet to see if he could get back his 
speed; he had finished third in the championship 
meet of the preceding spring. When he made his 
appearance in running clothes two days before 
the race he asked David to time him and was 
much pleased because he ran the distance in only 
one second more than at the spring meet. “And 
if I ’d had to, I could have pushed myself a little. 
Now I ’ll time you, Ives. You haven’t got on your 
running shoes — spikes hurt your feet?” 

“Yes, the old shoes are too small. But these 
will do.” 

David started off, and while he was circling the 
track Bartlett came over from the football practice 
and watched him. 

“Look here!” exclaimed Wallace in excite- 
ment when David stopped, panting, in front of 
him. “As nearly as I can make it your time is 
the same as mine to a fraction!” 


58 


DAVID IVES 


“Then I guess I shall have to push myself a 
little, too,” David said. 

“Both Johnson and Adams, who licked me last 
year, have left the school, and I thought I had a 
cinch,” Wallace complained. “ And now you turn 
up, running like a deer!” 

Bartlett put in a word of praise. “You’re 
going pretty well, Ives. To-morrow be sure to 
come out in running shoes.” 

“ I have n’t any,” David replied. 

“ You can get them at the store in the basement 
of the study and went to the locker room to hang 
Wallace here.” 

“I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to buy them.” 

“You needn’t pay cash. You can have them 
charged on your term bill.” 

“I can’t afford it, anyway.” 

Bartlett looked at him perplexed, unable to 
see why a fellow could not afford to have a thing 
charged on his term bill — for his father to pay. 

Wallace spoke up. “ Maybe you could wear an 
old pair of mine,” he said. “What’s your size?” 

“Eight, I think.” 

“ So is mine. I ’ll see if I can’t fit you out.” 

“Thanks. I guess, though, I can run in these.” 

“No, you can’t,” Bartlett said. “It will be 


FRIENDSHIPS 59 

mighty decent of you to lend him your extra pair, 
Wallace.” 

Half an hour later David entered the basement 
of the study and went to the locker room to hang 
up his sweater. Returning, he passed the open 
door of the room in which athletic supplies were 
kept for sale and saw Wallace trying on a pair 
of shoes; a second glance showed David that they 
were running shoes. He flushed with instant under- 
standing, and without letting Wallace know of 
his presence he went upstairs. 

Before dinner that evening Wallace came to his 
room, bearing a pair of spiked shoes. 

“Yes, I found I had an extra pair,” he said 
carelessly. “Here you are. I hope they fit.” 

David gravely tried them on. “Yes they’re a 
perfect fit,” he said. “ I hope your new ones fit 
you as well.” 

“ My new ones?” 

“Yes. You’ve been running in these right 
along, and you ’ve just bought yourself a new pair 
in order to give these to me.” 

“ Oh, you ’re dreaming.” 

“ It was no dream when I saw you trying them 
on in the store. You oughtn’t to have done it, 
Wallace. It was awfully good of you.” 


60 


DAVID IVES 


“Oh,” Wallace said, trying to conceal his em- 
barrassment, “I didn’t want to have you run in 
sneakers and lick me. That would be too much. 
Besides, old top, we ’ve got to stand by each other; 
we come from the same town.” 

If David could not express his appreciation 
fully to Wallace, he could at least tell some one 
who would appreciate Wallace’s act, and it came 
into his mind to tell Mr. Dean. Not only would 
Mr. Dean, who had followed his practice, be in- 
terested, but he might be moved to look more 
leniently on Wallace, who was giving very casual 
attention to his Latin. 

A good opportunity presented itself the next 
afternoon. Mr. Dean watched him while he made 
his trial and after it congratulated him on his speed 
and commented on the improvement produced by 
the aid of the running shoes. 

“ I owe them to Wallace,” David said, and then 
he described the manner in which Wallace had 
relieved his need. 

“Very thoughtful and tactful as well as very 
sportsmanlike,” commented Mr. Dean. “That’s 
the kind of thing I like to hear of a fellow’s doing. 
I ’m almost tempted to raise his Latin marks.” 

“ I hoped you might be.” 


FRIENDSHIPS 


61 


“ Even if I were, it would n’t help his prospects 
for passing his college entrance examinations. 
The trouble with Wallace is he has never yet 
learned how to study.” Mr. Dean paused for a 
moment; then he said, “Come up to my rooms 
after you ’ve dressed, and we ’ll talk over Wallace’s 
case.” 

So in half an hour they were holding a con- 
ference. 

“I suppose that you’d like to help Wallace if 
you could,” Mr. Dean began, and David assented 
earnestly. 

“It may be possible — just a moment till I 
change my seat; my eyes are bothering me; the 
light troubles them. Now! As I said, Wallace 
has n’t learned how to study. Would you be will- 
ing to teach him?” 

“ Of course, if I could.” 

“Now suppose that you and Wallace were ex- 
cused from the schoolroom for an hour each day 
and given a room to yourselves in which to work 
out the Latin together, without interference or 
supervision from anybody — just put on your 
honor to study Latin every minute of that hour — 
couldn’t you be of some use to Wallace?” 

“I might be,” said David thoughtfully. “I 
should try.” 


62 


DAVID IVES 


“The trouble with him is, sitting at his desk in 
the schoolroom he does n’t concentrate his thoughts. 
He studies, or thinks he studies, for a few minutes; 
then he changes to another book, then his eyes 
wander and with them his thoughts, then he takes 
up a pen and begins to practice writing his signa- 
ture; it’s really wonderful, the variety of flourishes 
and the decorative illegibility that he has managed 
to impart to it through such frequent idle practice. 
Of course when he’s detected wasting time he’s 
brought to book for it, but the master in charge 
of the schoolroom can’t ever compel him to give 
more than the appearance of studiousness. And 
that, I am afraid, is the most that he ever does 
give. But he’s an honorable fellow; and I believe 
that, put on his honor to study where there was 
no watchful eye to challenge his sporting spirit 
and with you to guide him, he might achieve 
results. On the other hand, for a while, anyway, 
such an arrangement would probably slow you up.” 

“ I should try not to let it. Even if it did, it 
wouldn’t be a serious matter.” 

“No more serious probably than slipping from 
first place to second or third.” 

“ That would n’t be important.” 

“ If it happened as a consequence, I should write 


FRIENDSHIPS 63 

to your father and explain. I hope, by the way, 
that you have good news of him?” 

David’s face clouded. “ Not very. He does n’t 
say anything himself, but mother writes that 
his vacation seems to have done him no good. She 
says he looks bad and seems played out. But 
he goes on working.” 

“That’s a habit of good doctors. Remember 
me to him when you write. I will have a talk with 
the rector and see what arrangements we can make 
for you and Wallace. Good luck to you in your 
race to-morrow. The handicapping committee are 
putting you and Wallace together at scratch.” 

David expressed his satisfaction at that news. 

The event justified the handicapping committee’s 
arrangement. Besides David and Wallace there 
were only two contestants in the quarter-mile, a 
fourth-former named Silsbee, who was given 
twenty yards, and a sixth-former named Heard, 
who was given ten. It was a chill and windy day, 
a fact that reduced the number of spectators to a 
small group who stood near the finish line with 
their hands in their pockets and their overcoat col- 
lars turned up; on the turf encircled by the track 
the football squads continued to practice, more 
or less oblivious of the races that were being run; 


64 


DAVID IVES 


what chiefly marked the day as different from one 
of trial tests and dashes was the table placed on 
the grass near the athletic house and bearing an 
assortment of shining pewter mugs and medals. 

It was toward the end of the afternoon that the 
quarter-mile was called. David and Wallace 
started together at the crack of the pistol and held 
together, shoulder to shoulder, halfway round the 
course. There they passed Heard, and a little 
farther on they passed Silsbee, and then Wallace 
forged a little ahead of David. But David had 
planned out his race ; he was not going to be drawn 
into a spurt until he was a hundred yards from 
home. So he let Wallace lengthen the distance 
between them from one yard to five, and from five 
to ten; and then he set about closing up the gap. 
It closed slowly but surely — one yard, two yards, 
three yards gained; then four and then five. For 
a moment Wallace, who heard David coming up, 
held that lead, but for a moment only; then David 
put on all his speed and the five yards’ difference 
vanished in as many seconds. Twenty yards from 
the finish the two were racing neck and neck, 
but David crossed the line a good three feet ahead. 

In the athletic house Wallace panted out his 
congratulations, and David gasped his thanks. 


FRIENDSHIPS 


65 


“ Handicapped by new shoes, I guess,” David 
suggested. 

“No; you’d have won in stocking feet. Best 
quarter-miler in school,” Wallace answered. “You 
wait, though. Lay for you next spring.” 

They finished dressing and got outdoors just in 
time to see the last event on the programme — 
the finals of the hundred-yard dash, which was 
won by a sixth-former named Tewksbury. Then 
the spectators moved over in a body to the table 
that bore the prizes. David saw Ruth Davenport 
take her stand next to Mr. Dean, who waited beside 
the table, ready to speak. 

“I am here merely as master of ceremonies,” 
said Mr. Dean, “ and my chief duty and privilege 
is to introduce to you Miss Ruth Davenport, to 
whom, of course, you need no introduction. She 
will hand to each prize-winner the mug or medal 
to which his efforts have entitled him. As I call 
off the names each fellow will please come forward. 
First in the mile run, W. F. Burton; time, six 
minutes and fifty-one seconds. Second, H. A. 
Morton.” 

Burton and Morton advanced amidst clapping 
of hands. David saw the smile that Ruth had for 
each of them as she presented the trophy, and 


66 


DAVID IVES 


when in his turn he faced her and took from her 
hand the cup he was aware of a shining eager- 
ness in her eyes; she bent toward him and said, 
“ Oh, I saw you win! It was splendid!” 

He went back to his place in the crowd, feeling 
incredibly happy. 

That evening Mr. Dean said to him as he passed 
him in the dining-room: “It’s all right, David — 
the matter about which we had our talk. I’m 
going to have an interview with Wallace to-night, 
and I hope that he will recognize at once the 
benefit he is to derive from the arrangement. You 
and he can have room number nine to yourselves 
between eleven and twelve each day.” 

The thought of the trust placed in him, of the 
freedom implied, and of the closer association with 
Wallace was pleasant to David. He hoped that 
Wallace would not be unfavorably disposed to- 
ward the plan. On that point Wallace himself a 
couple of hours later reassured him. David was 
getting ready for bed when there was a knock on 
his door and Wallace entered. 

“Mr. Dean tells me that you have me on your 
back, Dave,” he said. “Pretty hard luck: I don’t 
see what there is in it for you.” 

“ Never mind about that,” David answered. 64 1 


FRIENDSHIPS 67 

hope you are going to like the arrangement, 
Lester.” 

66 Oh, it’s fine for me. All I can say is, I’ll 
try not to be any more trouble to you than is 
necessary.” 

In spite of that excellent resolution, in the suc- 
ceeding weeks Wallace was a good deal of trouble 
to David. Not only was he naturally dull at 
Latin, so that even the simplest matters had to be 
explained over and over to him, but he was rest- 
less and impatient. David would get absorbed in 
his own work and would suddenly remember that 
he had a duty to Wallace to perform. And a 
glance would show him Wallace sprawling on a 
bench with his eyes fixed vaguely on the opposite 
wall, or fiddling with his pencil or twirling his 
key ring on his finger, or scribbling the dates of 
such coins as he found in his pockets. Then it 
would be David’s part to say: “Buck up, Lester. 
What’s the matter? Need some help?” Usually 
Wallace thought that he did, and it would take 
David five or ten minutes to get him started and 
prove to him that he really did not. 

“You wouldn’t quit at football just because 
tackling was hard to learn,” David said. “You 
ought n’t to be any more willing to quit at Latin or 
anything else that you have to try.” 


68 


DAVID IVES 


“Why aren’t you out playing football, Dave?” 
Wallace seemed not at all interested in taking the 
moral to heart. 

“Oh, I’m no good at it. I’ve never played 
very much. Here, start in now.” 

“You ought to make a good end or back, with 
your speed. Why don’t you come out and try?” 

“ Why don’t you settle down to your job? 
We ’re not here to talk football.” 

As a matter of fact, it was David rather than 
Wallace whose thoughts went straying after that 
conversation. In view of the episode of the spiked 
shoes, how was he to tell Wallace that he could not 
come out for football simply because he had no 
clothes? Wallace would probably at once play 
the fairy godmother again and furnish him with 
an outfit. David was eager to play; he had gained 
in weight and strength in this last year; there 
was nothing he would like better than to test his 
ability and skill, nothing that he hated worse than 
to be thought soft and timorous. And that, of 
course, was what most fellows would think. 

But his mother’s letters stiffened his self-denial. 
She wrote that his father seemed preoccupied and 
worried, and that patients were not paying their 
bills, and that, though she knew it was selfish, 


FRIENDSHIPS 


69 


she could not help wishing every minute that 
David were at home. So he said to himself that 
he did not care what people thought; he was not 
going to cost the family a penny more than was 
absolutely necessary. 

Three days after the track meet he was invited 
to the rectory for supper. 

“You’ll get awfully good food,” said Wallace 
enviously. 44 1 was there at a blow-out last week.” 

The rectory was a hospitable house, and on this 
occasion there were eight other guests besides 
David, all fifth-formers, who sat down to supper 
with the family. The food justified Wallace’s pre- 
diction; David blushed under congratulations 
from both Dr. and Mrs. Davenport, and still more 
under Ruth’s statement from across the table — 
44 It was a corking race.” After supper the rector 
walked with him out of the dining-room and said 
a pleasant word, complimenting him on the assist- 
ance he was giving to Wallace. 

Then they all sat in the library while Dr. 
Davenport read them a story from Kipling, after 
which he excused himself and, departing to his 
study, left the further entertainment of the guests 
to his wife and daughter. With charades and 
44 Consequences ” and 44 Up Jenkins,” they beguiled 


70 


DAVID IVES 


the time hilariously. David, when it was possible, 
followed Ruth with his eyes; she was so nimble, 
so joyous, so radiant, that she quite fascinated 
him; in watching her and in waiting for her voice 
he sometimes lost the thread of the action and 
bungled the part that he had to play. But he did 
not mind, for her laughter seemed to him even 
kinder and sweeter than her applause. 

The guests prepared to take their departure; 
in schoolboy habit they formed in line to shake 
hands with their hostesses and say good-night. 
David happened to be the last in the line, and 
Ruth detained him a moment while she said: 

“You know I ’m a Pythian, David, so I was 
glad you won. Aren’t you going to play foot- 
ball, too?” 

“No, I don’t play football much,” David an- 
swered. 

“You could if you tried — anybody that can 
run like that!” 

David blushed and laughed and departed from 
the house feeling very much as if he had been 
knighted. 

And wonderfully enough, three days later he 
was out playing football on the Pythian scrub, with 
Ruth, the most consistent of all partisans, looking 



(gjfr • 

■ >^§§k s 


■'} & 
foe 

■ V 

l. & 

\J. * 


syF 

%*•> 

i>K*. 


>S> 


),'•♦ '-V V 4*. ’- ■ 

^ S?Ti4 Jn^fi ^ 

-.'• ff 4.4V lev T>1-’ • 

' - *4- “ t»... V 

? J : i :. 










X:* 




iS '^£ml 


TACKLED A RUNNER IN THE OPEN FIELD AND GOT A WRENCHED ANKLE 




































































FRIENDSHIPS 


71 


on. A letter had come from his father enclosing 
ten dollars — a cheerful letter very different from 
those that his mother had been writing and one 
that caused David’s spirits to soar. Dr. Ives wrote 
that “business” had been very slow but that it 
was picking up a bit; that he realized that David 
was probably in need of cash and that he was the 
kind of fellow who would never ask for it; and 
that he was sending him a little money, which he 
must spend for whatever he most wanted. As for 
himself, Dr. Ives declared that he was feeling like 
a fighting-cock, now that cool weather had come. 

It did not take David long after receiving that 
letter to get what he most wanted. For the rest 
of the football season he reported for practice 
every day. He displayed no striking ability, but 
he won a place as half back on the second Pythian 
eleven ; and in the game with the second Corinthians 
he made one of the three Pythian touchdowns 
and later tackled a runner in the open field and 
got a wrenched ankle, which necessitated his being 
assisted to the side lines. 

While he lay there wearing the stoical expres- 
sion expected of the injured, Ruth Davenport came 
up and said, “ Oh, I hope you ’re not much hurt, 
David!” 


72 


DAVID IVES 


“Oh, no; it’s nothing.” He was immensely 
pleased by her interest. 

“You were playing so well, too. What a shame!” 

He mumbled inarticulately and squirmed, but 
not in pain. He knew that if he had played all 
through and made touchdown after touchdown he 
could never have got quite such a soft look from 
her eyes. 

And then there was a shout and a long Pythian 
run, and the exultant Pythian crowd went stream- 
ing down the field, with Ruth fluttering and dancing 
behind. 


CHAPTER V 


THE RETURN 

T HE day of the 20th of November was one that 
David never forgot — a raw, windy, overcast 
day, somber and threatening. And yet it began 
happily enough. All through the school there 
ran a livelier current of interest and excitement, 
a keener thrill of expectancy, for in the afternoon 
the first elevens of the Pythians and the Corinthians 
were to meet in their championship encounter. 

To David it seemed afterwards a strange and 
terrible thing that he could have spent that after- 
noon as he did, shouting and whooping gleefully 
on the side lines. It proved to be the Pythians’ 
day; they scored three touchdowns and kicked as 
many goals while the Corinthians struggled and 
fought without avail. After the game David took 
part in the jubilant Pythian cheering in front of 
the athletic house. Walking up to the study with 
Wallace afterwards, he felt that he had never 
been happier, or better satisfied with life. 

The recitation hour before supper was devoted 


74 


DAVID IVES 


to Latin; the fifth form met Mr. Dean in one of 
the large rooms on the top floor of the building. 
The master made allowance for the raggedness 
of some of the translations; it was to be expected, 
for example, that Garland, who had made two of 
the three touchdowns, and who was decorated with 
a large cocoon over the left eye, should stagger 
and stumble, and it was no new thing that Wallace 
should have to be helped through the passage as- 
signed him. David had been as fluent and accurate 
as usual; now, with the half-hour gone, Mr. Dean 
was calling to their feet, one after another, the 
rear guard of the class. Barrison was making his 
hesitating way through the lines that he had been 
requested to translate when a fourth -former, young 
Penfield, entered the room and, walking up to 
the platform, handed Mr. Dean a note. 

Barrison stopped his recitation; Mr* Dean 
glanced at the note, and his face became grave. 
“All right, Penfield,” he said; and the fourth- 
former left the room. 

Mr. Dean stepped down from the platform and 
walked along the aisle between the rows of desks. 
Barrison and the other fellows looked at him won- 
deringly. He put his hand on David’s shoulder; 
David sat next to the aisle. 


THE RETURN 


75 


44 David,” he said, 44 the rector has sent for you. 
You will find him in his study.” 

Then David, startled, not understanding, yet 
vaguely fearful, rose. Mr. Dean with his hand on 
his shoulder walked with him to the door and gave 
him a parting, affectionate little caress. 

David hurried along the corridor with fast-beat- 
ing heart. He knew instinctively from the manner 
of Mr. Dean’s dismissing him that he was not 
being summoned because of any evil-doing. He 
felt that it was something worse than that. 

The door of the rector’s study was open, and 
Dr. Davenport was walking back and forth inside. 
Coming forward to meet David, he put his hands on 
his shoulders. 

44 My boy,” he said gently, 44 very bad news has 
come for you. Your mother has telegraphed that 
your father is very ill, and you are to go home.” 

Tears welled into David’s eyes, and he asked in 
a breaking voice, 44 Is he dead, Dr. Davenport?” 

44 The telegram said that he is dying.” The 
rector drew the sobbing boy to him and held him 
close. “Let us hope that you will reach home in 
time, David. You can get a train to Boston at 
seven o’clock, and you can get a midnight train 
from there to New York. While you are packing, 


76 DAVID IVES 

I will arrange by telephone about reservations for 
you.” 

But David was not heeding. 66 0 Dr. Daven- 
port!” he cried. “Isn’t there any hope? Mother 
wrote that he was better; is n’t there some mistake?” 

“ I ’m afraid not, David.” The rector showed 
the telegram. 

David held it a moment, and the tears flowed 
down his cheeks. “Poor mother! Poor little 
Ralph!” 

“Yes, they are needing you, my boy. And 
we ’ll get you to them just as soon as it ’s possible.” 
The rector was silent a moment, stroking David’s 
shoulder, giving him time to recover his compo- 
sure. “ I ’ll see that you are provided with money 
enough. There will be a carriage to take you to 
the station at half -past six. It’s now a quarter 
past five.” The rector turned to a safe in the 
corner of the room, and took out some money. 
“Here,” he said, “is fifty dollars. You must not 
be in any hurry about returning the amount. Good- 
bye, David, my boy, and God bless you.” 

David went down the stairs blinded with tears. 
Outside it was dark except for the scattered lights 
along the road and the illuminated windows of 
the buildings. David saw the dormitory ahead 


THE RETURN 


77 


and thought of the day when he had stood on the 
steps and received his father’s last embrace, and 
as he stumbled on and the lights were breaking 
and dancing through his tears he wished with all 
the passionate love of his young heart that he could 
have that day, just that one day, over again. 

The janitor of the building brought the boy’s 
trunk down from the loft, and soon David was at 
work, not merely emptying the drawers of his ward- 
robe, but dismantling his room. He would never 
come back to this place again ; that he knew. 

There came presently a knock on the door. He 
opened it and found Wallace standing there. 

“ 0 Dave!” said Wallace and clasped his friend’s 
hand. He continued after a moment, 64 Mr. Dean 
sent me to see if I could do anything for you. He ’s 
coming himself in a few minutes. Is there any- 
thing I can get for you — anything at all?” 

46 No, thanks, Lester. I ’m pretty nearly packed. 
Just sit with me awhile.” 

66 The fellows feel awfully badly about it. Lots 
of them wanted to come, but they thought maybe 
you ’d rather be alone.” 

46 Yes, I think I would, except for you.” 

Wallace sat and looked on in dumb sympathy 
while David continued his packing. At last it 


78 


DAVID IVES 


was all finished, and David sat down and looked out 
of the window into the darkness. While he waited 
thus he spoke only once. 

46 1 wish you’d known him, Lester,” he said. 

Soon he saw the lights of a motor-car coming 
down the avenue; the driver appeared and took 
the trunk; Wallace picked up the bag. At the 
foot of the stairs Mr. Dean was waiting. David 
caught Wallace’s hand and pressed it, unable to 
speak, and Wallace, equally inarticulate, returned 
the pressure. The next moment David and Mr. 
Dean were hidden within the automobile. 

During most of the drive Mr. Dean occupied 
himself with advising David about the practical 
details of his journey. But, after all, his talk was 
chiefly to turn the current of David’s thoughts, 
for he had put down on a paper all the important 
items for the boy’s guidance. As David pocketed 
the memorandum that Mr. Dean finally gave him, 
he felt that he must seem unresponsive and un- 
touched by so much kindness. 

44 0 Mr. Dean, you don’t know how good to me 
I think you are! I — I wish my father could 
know!” 

46 My dear boy, it ’s just that we all want to help 
when we see our friends in trouble.” 


THE RETURN 


79 


“ Yes, but it ’s the way you help. I shall always 
remember it.” 

64 1 shall always remember your father, David. 
I have seen a great many fathers here with their 
sons, hut never one whose interest and affection 
made quite such an appeal to me as his. It’s a 
long, long way back, but he made me think of my 
own father; I was about your age, David, when 
my father died.” 

The automobile sped from the country road to 
the paved streets of the town and drew up before 
the station. 

“You’ll come back to us after Christmas, I 
hope, David,” said the master. 

44 I shall probably not be able to. I don’t know 
just what there will be for me to do,” David an- 
swered. 

64 1 hope you will find it possible to continue in 
the career that your father had planned.” 

44 1 should like to, for his sake.” 

44 Whatever happens, David, our friendship 
mustn’t end here. You must look on me as al- 
ways your friend.” 

The train drew into the station for its brief stop. 
David and Mr. Dean shook hands at the steps and 
parted. 


80 


DAVID IVES 


That night David had a few hours of broken 
sleep in his stuffy berth; the next day he spent 
gazing out of the window at the brown farming 
lands of New Jersey and Pennsylvania and the 
bare, stark forests and the little villages that seemed 
to glance up at the train with a start of wonder and 
to relapse into rumination after it fled by. At ten 
o’clock the next morning the train drew into the 
station of the city that was his home. 

There was no one to meet him at the station. 
He took a Rosewood car and in half an hour 
alighted at the familiar old street comer. With 
his bag banging against his leg and his heart pound- 
ing in his breast, he ran along the sidewalk. And 
then suddenly, though he had been trying to pre- 
pare himself for this all through the journey, his 
legs weakened and threatened to collapse under 
him, and tears flooded his eyes. He passed through 
the gate with uncertain steps and a sense that the 
world was reeling round him. The blinds were 
down, and a black streamer fluttered beside the 
door. 

From somewhere within the house they had been 
watching, for the door opened as he mounted the 
steps; the next moment he had his mother in 
his arms, and Ralph was standing by, with face 
upturned to kiss him. 


THE RETURN 


81 


“ He died yesterday afternoon at three o’clock,” 
said Mrs. Ives. “ He did n’t suffer; all that seemed 
to trouble him was diat he could n’t see you.” 

Trying to comfort his mother, who seemed now 
wholly to give way, David controlled his own 
emotion. Presently she took him upstairs to the 
room in which she had been sitting all the morn- 
ing — the room into which only slits of light came 
from behind the drawn shades; and there David 
stood and looked upon his father’s face. 

A week after the funeral David, returning the 
money that had been lent him, wrote to Dr. 
Davenport that it would be impossible for him 
to return to St. Timothy’s School. His mother’s 
resources were extremely slender; indeed, David 
found that the income on which the family must 
depend would be barely sufficient to sustain them 
if they practiced the most rigid economy. Maggie 
must go, the house must be sold or let, and 
they must move into narrower and less expensive 
quarters. 

Maggie, however, refused to accept dismissal. 

“I’ve been with you altogether too long to be 
deserting you in your trouble,” she said to Mrs. 
Ives. 

“ But, Maggie, we can’t afford — ” 


82 


DAVID IVES 


“Sure, and I shouldn’t think you could, the 
way the doctor was that easy-going! But I’ve 
been thrifty — ” 

It was no use to argue with Maggie, and after 
some further ineffectual remonstrance Mrs. Ives 
succumbed. 

Maggie stayed, and a sign “ To Let or For Sale ” 
was planted in front of the house beside the flag- 
stone walk; and Mrs. Ives tried to feel that it was 
a stroke of good fortune when within a week a 
tenant was secured. She tried equally to feel that 
good fortune was again hers when she hired, only 
a quarter of a mile away, a comfortable apart- 
ment for considerably less than the rent she was 
to receive for the house. But she shrank none 
the less from the preparation that soon had to be 
made for moving. Often she burst into tears and 
left Maggie to execute or direct the undertaking 
on which she had been engaged. In those de- 
pressed moods her surest consolation was in the 
re-reading of the letters of sympathy that had come 
to her after her husband’s death and that had shown 
her how widely he had been loved, how truly he had 
been respected. Perhaps the letter that she read 
most often and with the greatest satisfaction was 
that from Dr. Wallace; she had always felt that 


THE RETURN 83 

by the men of his profession her husband had never 
been accorded full recognition; yet here surely was 
the proof that she had been mistaken. Dr. Wal- 
lace wrote as one who had known and appreciated 
and admired. And his son had written to David, 
a boyish, sympathetic letter, with this sentence at 
the end, 64 My father says that yours was fine.” 
Those letters were not the only ones that helped to 
remove the old bitterness over what had seemed 
to her the failure of the community to accord her 
husband the place that he had earned; now at the 
end of all came letters upon letters testifying to the 
existence of an affection that she had thought with- 
held. She read them over and over, but Dr. Wal- 
lace’s oftenest of all. 

David’s plan was to go back to the high school 
after Christmas, finish out the year and then try to 
find work in some business office. He felt that he 
must abandon his ambition to be a surgeon and 
must set about establishing himself in a position 
where he could at an early date contribute to the 
support of the family and to Ralph’s education. 
His mother lamented the necessity and protested 
against the sacrifice, but was unable to suggest 
any alternative. 

Christmas was a day that David and his mother 


34 


DAVID IVES 


looked forward to with no happy expectancy. But 
on Christmas Eve they all hung up their stockings 
as usual, and after Ralph had gone to bed David 
assisted his mother in arranging the presents. 

44 So many,” Mrs. Ives sighed, 64 that our friends 
have given us! And we have been able to give to 
so few!” 

“ Never mind,” David answered. 44 People aren’t 
going to think about that.” 

He kissed his mother — a paternal sort of kiss. 
Often in those days he felt quite paternal toward 
her. 

The next morning, though Mrs. Ives could not 
bring herself to respond, 44 Merry Christmas!” to 
that greeting, delivered by each of her sons and 
by Maggie, she did enjoy the pleasant spectacle 
of Ralph’s excitement and of her older boy’s eager 
interest as they opened bundles; she even had a 
mild pleasure in examining the things that had 
been given to her. It became more than that; it 
became a tenderer emotion when she found the 
books that were the gifts of her two boys. But 
it was the arrival of the postman, about the middle 
of the morning, that furnished the great sensation 
of the day. He left several Christmas cards, two 
or three little packages and a letter for David. 


THE RETURN 85 

The envelope bore the address of St. Timothy’s 
School. 

David opened it and in a moment was crying 
with excitement, “Mother! Mother! Just look at 
this!” His face was so eager, his eyes were so 
shining that Ralph came crowding up to look over 
his mother’s shoulder as she read: 

My Dear David: One who is deeply interested in you 
and who has an affectionate memory of your father and 
of his hopes and ambitions for you has communicated 
to me his wish that you return to St. Timothy’s and com- 
plete your course. He is not only well able to bear the 
expense, but he is eager to do so; in fact, he has al- 
ready placed a sum of money to your credit here, and 
I am therefore sending you a check to cover your travel- 
ing expenses. He does not wish to make himself known 
to you now; he hopes that you will not make any in- 
quiries concerning him. He has other grounds than 
those of modesty for requesting this. 

We shall all welcome you back after the Christmas 
holidays. And I am very glad indeed that the school 
is not after all to lose one of its best pupils. 

Sincerely yours, 

C. S. Davenport. 

“Isn’t that splendid, mother!” David began, 
and then stopped, for instead of joy there was an 
added sadness in his mother’s face. 

“Yes, David, yes,” she answered, and quickly 


86 


DAVID IVES 


tried to assume cheerfulness. “Only — it will be 
harder than ever to part with you now.” 

“I won’t go if you feel you need me, mother.” 

“ Of course you must go. You could not decline 
an offer made by one who wants to help you to 
carry out your dear father’s wishes.” 

But David was still doubtful. “I wonder if I 
ought to go. I wonder if I oughtn’t to stay here 
and find work — ” 

“No, David, no. We must look to the future, 
dear. I couldn’t think of letting you sacrifice 
an opportunity so wonderfully offered. Who do 
you suppose is giving it to you, David?” 

“I can’t imagine* — unless it’s Dr. Wallace/ 

“Of course! That’s just who it is!” Mrs. 
Ives’s thoughts reverted to the sympathetic letter 
that he had written her. “ Of course it ’s Dr. 
Wallace. He’s taking this way of showing how 
much he thought of your father.” 

“I shouldn’t wonder at all if Lester had sug- 
gested it to him,” said David. “ Lester ’s my best 
friend. I suppose, though, I mustn’t say anything 
to him about it.” 

“ No, since it ’s Dr. Wallace’s wish.” 

“Perhaps Lester will come and see me during 
the vacation; perhaps he ’ll refer to it in some way.” 


THE RETURN 


87 


66 Of course, if he should do that. But we must 
be careful to respect Dr. Wallace’s wish.” 

She could not help rejoicing with her boy over 
his good fortune, and she could not help sorrow- 
ing for it in her heart. Already she had come to 
look upon him as her prop and her companion in 
the loneliness with which she must always now be 
surrounded. Was there no end to the sacrifices 
required of women? But even while her spirit 
made that outcry, a look into her son’s radiant 
face comforted her. 

The day after Christmas the moving began. By 
the middle of the afternoon it was all accomplished ; 
some of the family possessions were in storage, 
the rest were already disposed in a quite orderly 
manner in the neat little apartment. David, who 
had gone back to the house to effect a final clear- 
ance of discarded articles, had turned the key in 
the lock for the last time. He looked up and saw 
Lester Wallace entering at the gate and ran to meet 
him eagerly. 

46 Do you know my great news?” 

“No. What?” 

“ I ’m going back next term, after all.” 

“0 Dave, isn’t that great! Somehow I felt it 
must be all a mistake that you weren’t coming 
back. All the fellows will be so glad.” 


88 


DAVID IVES 


From Wallace’s manner David could not be 
sure whether he had any knowledge or intimation 
of his father’s generosity or not. He seemed, at 
any rate, not at all interested in the question how 
the means for David’s return had been provided. 
So into that question David did not go. He pre- 
vailed on Wallace to come into the new apartment 
for a few minutes and meet his mother; she, with 
the thought of Dr. Wallace foremost in her mind, 
could hardly refrain from uttering words of grati- 
tude that pressed to her lips. Altogether, Wal- 
lace’s brief visit imparted a pleasant glow of 
cheerfulness and hopefulness to Mrs. Ives on that 
trying first day in her new surroundings. 

Maggie did not disapprove of David’s return 
to St. Timothy’s so much as he had expected. 
46 Well,” she said, “ I guess you ’d better be there 
than strammin ’ round a small place like this. I ’m 
sure it will mean less than half as much work for 
me. I must say, though, if I was that rich I had 
to be giving money away, I wouldn’t be doing it 
to take a boy from his mother — whoever I was.” 

That, to be sure, was just what David’s bene- 
factor was doing, and it came home to the boy 
when on the last day his mother accompanied him 
to the station. Ralph, who had been excused from 


THE RETURN 


89 


school, was with them, and in the trolley car and 
afterwards on the bench in the waiting-room sat 
snuggled close to his brother — demonstrative in 
this way of his affection. Mrs. Ives was silent most 
of the time, but often surreptitiously squeezed 
David’s hand. While they waited, Wallace, ac- 
companied by his father and mother, entered; they 
came up to David and Mrs. Ives; and Mrs. Wallace 
said, “ It ’s hard when we have to send them back, 
isn’t it?” 

Mrs. Ives, mindful even in that moment of the 
obligation to which she must not refer, answered, 
“Yes, it’s hard, but I am trying not to be sorry. 
David is so glad.” 

Dr. Wallace grasped David’s arm with one hand 
and his son’s arm with the other and held the two 
boys for a moment while he said genially, “Help 
each other along all you can, you two fellows.” 
And David felt how splendid it must be to be 
able to give help, instead of just receiving it — to 
be giving such help as his father all his life had 
given to others; he felt that it was to enable him to 
do that very thing that Dr. Wallace was sending 
him back to St. Timothy’s, and he resolved to be 
worthy of the opportunity. 

In the train David had the few last moments 


90 


DAVID IVES 


alone with his mother and Ralph, just as Lester 
had with his mother and father. They were silent 
moments, so charged with feeling that David sat 
with tear-blurred eyes, aware only of his mother 
pressing his hand and Ralph crowding against 
him softly. 

“ Write to us often, David,” his mother said. 
“And — and think of your father every day.” 

David nodded, too choked to speak. He kissed 
each of them — a long, long kiss for his mother 
— hugged them close; and the next moment they 
were gone. 


CHAPTER VI 


PROBATION 

I T was after dark on the January afternoon 
when the sleigh in which David Ives and Les- 
ter Wallace drove from the station to the school 
drew up in front of the rectory. The boys had 
made the last stage of their journey in company 
with a number of others; from New York it 
had been a jolly and exciting trip. David had 
been surprised as well as pleased by the greetings 
of fellows whom he had hardly known, by the way 
in which they had said, “Awfully glad you’re 
coming back to the school, Ives.” Even Henshaw had 
been, as David expressed it afterwards to Lester, 
“ mighty decent to him.” 

The welcome from the rector was equally cordial. 
He kept David for a few moments after Lester had 
gone. 

“There are just one or two things that I might 
add to what I wrote in my letter, David. Your 
friend who is putting you through wants you to 
be under no handicap in your relations with the 


92 


DAVID IVES 


other fellows; in other words, he wants you to 
have the usual amount of spending money, so that 
you shall be able to take part freely in the games 
and sports.” 

“That’s pretty fine of him, isn’t it!” David 
exclaimed. “ But honestly, Dr. Davenport, it 
doesn’t seem to me right to — to let him be so 
generous.” 

“I don’t think he will spoil you by over-indul- 
gence,” the rector said smiling. “If I were you 
I should accept the situation and make the best 
of it. By the way, I wish you’d stop in and see 
Mr. Dean. He has been expressing the greatest 
pleasure at the prospect of having you back here, 
and I know he will appreciate your looking him 
up.” 

So at once David betook himself to Mr. Dean’s 
cottage, and there in the study he found the master, 
sitting in front of the fire, with the old green eye- 
shade over his eyes. 

“Hello, David!” Mr. Dean rose and came for- 
ward; he led David into the room. “Something 
told me that we should have you with us again; 
I felt sure that somehow you’d manage it.” 

“I didn’t manage it,” David said. “It came 
to me as a great surprise — a Christmas surprise, 


PROBATION 


93 


too.” Mr. Dean looked interested. “ I suppose 
you know, Mr. Dean, how it happens that I ’m 
back.” 

“ I understood that some one who sympathized 
with your father’s wishes for you was arranging it.” 

66 Yes. I don’t know who it is; at least I’m 
supposed not to know, though I can’t help sus- 
pecting.” 

Mr. Dean took off his glasses and polished them 
with his handkerchief. 

“ It ’s odd that the man should want to make a 
mystery of it,” he remarked. 

“Yes, I don’t quite understand that. He’s a 
doctor at home who knew my father and wrote the 
finest letter about him! Well, I don’t see why 
I shouldn’t tell you who I think it is; it’s Lester 
Wallace’s father.” 

“An old St. Timothy’s boy himself. Good for 
him! He won’t be sorry.” 

“ I hope you had a good vacation, Mr. Dean.” 

“Not the best. I had to spend most of it in 
Boston under an oculist’s care, and I have to look 
forward to some tedious hours. No more reading 
at night. Take care of your eyes, my boy.” 

“ They ’re pretty strong, I guess. I ’m sorry 
you’re having trouble with yours, Mr. Dean. If 


94 


DAVID IVES 


you ever want somebody to come and read to you, 
I wish you’d send for me.” 

“Thank you, David; I’ll do that.” 

But Mr. Dean did not care to talk about him- 
self; he questioned David concerning his mother 
and Ralph, expressed his sympathy for Mrs. Ives’s 
feeling of forlornness at her son’s return to St. 
Timothy’s and said he should think she would 
really hate the man who was responsible for it. 
“Oh, no,” David hastened to say; “she’s just as 
grateful to him as I am; only she couldn’t help 
being sorry, too.” 

“Well, if it’s Dr. Wallace, it’s a pretty good in- 
vestment, so far as his own boy’s concerned,” re- 
marked Mr. Dean. “Lester slid off badly last 
term after you left us. Do you think you can take 
hold of him again and keep him going? ” 

David was willing to try; he found Wallace will- 
ing to submit. Indeed, Wallace seemed unwill- 
ing to make any independent effort with his les- 
sons; he needed the stimulus of David’s interest 
and David’s prompting. Without them his mind 
was incorrigibly preoccupied with athletics; it did 
not matter what the season might be; his passion 
for athletics was universal. Now, in midwinter, 
snowballing, coasting, snowshoeing, and hockey 


PROBATION 


95 


were keeping his mind as active as his body; in 
study hours he was planning expeditions, arrang- 
ing snowball fights and ambuscades, imagining 
himself the hero of exciting hockey games, in 
which he dodged brilliantly through the opposing 
forces, steering the puck always before him. Even 
when the weather was so bad that no form of out- 
door sport was possible, Wallace’s attention was 
not more easily fixed on books. Then thoughts of 
the gymnasium engrossed him, of the brilliant 
feats that could be executed there. 

Indeed, as the time of the spring exhibition drew 
near, he became more and more intent on qualify- 
ing himself for some prominent part in it. He 
and Monroe practiced together daily and became 
proficient in feats of ground and lofty tumbling. 
David, going into the gymnasium one afternoon, 
was much impressed by the quickness, sureness, 
and rhythm of their performance — somersault- 
ing over each other, snapping each other up from 
the mat, giving each other a hand at just the right 
moment. “Pretty slick,” was David’s admiring 
comment. “You make a great team.” 

That was the opinion of the gymnasium instruc- 
tor, who looked forward to putting them on as one 
of the principal features of the exhibition. Wallace 


96 


DAVID IVES 


lived in the gymnasium not merely during play- 
time; his thoughts were there at all hours, and his 
studies suffered accordingly. He rejected David’s 
offer to help him with his Latin out of hours, and, 
as Mr. Dean did not see fit to renew the arrange- 
ment that had been so advantageous to him the 
preceding term, he no longer received any assist- 
ance from his friend. His Latin recitations grew 
more and more uncertain; frequently he attempted 
to bluff them through — seldom with any degree of 
success. A week before the gymnasium exhibi- 
tion, Mr. Dean set the class an hour examination; 
David, glancing up from the task, which he found 
simple, observed Wallace lolling indifferently in 
his seat and tapping his teeth idly with his pencil. 
Later, when he looked again, Wallace was writing 
busily, and David felt encouraged; he relinquished 
hope, however, when he saw Wallace leave his 
seat half an hour before the full time allotted for 
the examination had expired, hand in his work at 
the desk, and depart jauntily from the room. 

He did not encounter Wallace until after lun- 
cheon ; then they met in the hall of the dormitory. 

“ Cinch, wasn’t it? ” Wallace said, and in sur- 
prise David asked, “ What? ” 

“ Old Dean’s exam. I killed it. Did you see 
me get through way ahead of time?” 


PROBATION 


97 


“Yes, I was afraid that meant you hadn’t been 
able to do much with it.” 

“ Oh, there were some things I did n’t know and 
others that I just made a stab at. But I ’m pretty 
sure I killed it. And I had an extra half-hour 
practicing in the gym while you poor guys were 
writing away.” 

David thought no more of the episode. Two 
days later, after the Latin recitation, Mr. Dean re- 
turned to die boys their examination books, with 
marks showing their rating. A was the highest 
mark attainable, E meant failure. David, well 
pleased at seeing the large A in red ink on the 
cover of his book, walked slowly down the cor- 
ridor, turning over the pages. Monroe joined him, 
happy at being awarded a B, and they descended 
the stairs together and stood outside the door of 
their building comparing their books. Suddenly 
Wallace burst out upon them; they looked up, 
startled by his flaming, angry face. 

“ What do you think of that?” he cried and thrust 
his examination book under their eyes. His 
hand shook in his rage. “See what that old fos- 
sil’s done to me! ” 

The letter E adorned the cover, and under it was 
written: “ I have hesitated over this mark. In or- 


98 


DAVID IVES 


dinary circumstances I might have given such 
work as this D; it is poor enough at best, but it is 
not wholly bad. Had you chosen to exert your 
mind to the utmost during the full examination 
period, you would unquestionably have passed; 
because you did not choose to do this, I mark you 
E” 

“A dirty trick!” exclaimed Monroe. “He 
admits you wrote a paper good enough to pass 
you, and then he turns round and gives you E!” 

“ How does he know what I might have done if 
I’d stayed through the hour!” Lester turned 
irately upon David. “ Well, what do you think of 
your friend now, Dave? ” 

David looked troubled. “ It does seem pretty 
rough. But I suppose Mr. Dean thought that was 
the only way of making you work.” 

“Making me work!” Wallace’s eyes flashed 
more angrily than ever. “I did enough work to 
pass; he admits it. That’s all I want. I’m not a 
grind, like you; I don’t have to be. I don’t want to 
get A’s like you; I don’t have to. Fooling round 
old Dean so much has turned you into a prig.” 

He walked rapidly away and left both David 
and Monroe to an uncomfortable silence. David 
felt hurt; that Lester should take a fling at his ne- 


PROBATION 


99 


cessity was unkind. He sympathized with Lester, 
but he sympathized with Mr. Dean, too. He said 
to Monroe, “Mr. Dean’s not trying to be nasty; 
he ’s just trying to keep Lester headed straight.” 

“ If Lester’s paper was good enough to pass 
him, he ought to have passed,” replied Monroe 
obstinately. 

The next morning in the Latin class Wallace 
sullenly said, “ Not prepared,” when his name was 
called. Mr. Dean looked at him for a moment and 
then said, “ I will ask you to wait and speak to me, 
Wallace, after the hour.” 

What that interview brought forth David was 
soon to learn. In the noon intermission he was 
walking up to the dormitory when Wallace joined 
him. 

“He’s put me on probation,” Wallace an- 
nounced, “because of my Latin flunk. If I’d 
passed my Latin, I ’d have been all right.” 

“ It ’s hard luck.” David could think of nothing 
more to say. 

“ It ’s pretty tough because now I can’t take part 
in the gymnasium exhibition. It’s hard on Mon- 
roe because it cuts him out of a good half of his 
stunts.” 

“ Did you talk to Mr. Dean about it? ” 


100 


DAVID IVES 


46 Oh, yes, but it did no good. When I tried to 
argue with him, he said he did n’t care to hear me. 
He has it in for me; that’s the size of it. There’s 
just one thing that might help.” 

44 What? ” 

44 Well, if you went to him and told him that you 
thought he had n’t been quite fair in his treatment 
of me, and if you’d show him how unfair to Mon- 
roe it all is, he might reconsider. He likes you, 
and he ’d listen to anything you say.” 

44 1 ’ll explain to him about you and Monroe,” 
said David. 

44 1 wrote home about the stunts we were going 
to do, and father thought it was great. He’ll be 
awfully disappointed if I tell him I could n’t take 
part because of being on probation.” 

So David went on his mission of intercession. 
He pleaded Wallace’s cause as well as he could, 
but Mr. Dean remained unmoved. 

44 The boy has been loafing, and now he has to 
pay the penalty,” declared Mr. Dean. 44 And when 
he urges that it ’s hard on Monroe, the only answer 
is that in most cases the innocent are involved 
with the guilty.” 

44 But if he really wrote an examination good 
enough to pass him, it seems hardly fair — ” 


PROBATION 


101 


“ Do you think, David, that I am choosing to be 
unfair to Wallace?” 

“No, I shouldn’t have said that; but Lester 
thinks that you’re being unfair to him.” 

“ He ’s not willing to abide by consequences. 
It’s not a case for leniency, David.” 

David delivered the message and received noth- 
ing but reproaches. 

“ I guess you did n’t let him see what a skunk 
he is,” Wallace grumbled, and David replied: 

“You know I don’t think he’s anything of the 
kind.” 

“Monroe thinks he is,” declared Wallace with 
satisfaction. “I don’t see why they keep an old 
fossil like that on here. You can stand up for 
him, of course, because you’re one of his favor- 
ites; he’s a great fellow for having pets.” 

David walked away without making any retort. 
He was depressed and disappointed. He had not 
believed Wallace could be so unjust. His sense of 
obligation to Wallace’s father made his distress 
all the more keen. It was not only Wallace that 
blamed him; Monroe also was cool to him and 
thought that he could have made things right with 
Mr. Dean if he had chosen to exert himself. 

For a few days they let him alone, and he was 


102 


DAVID IVES 


quite unhappy. Then came the night of the gym- 
nasium exhibition; he sat among the spectators 
and saw Monroe execute his various acrobatic feats 
in partnership with Calvert, a stripling of the 
fourth form; it was a creditable performance, but 
not what it would have been with Wallace to assist. 
Nevertheless the applause was generous, and Mon- 
roe was awarded a medal — first prize — for his 
work. This success apparently took the soreness 
out of Monroe; at any rate, he responded heartily 
to David’s congratulations afterwards and resumed 
his old friendly relations with him, as if they 
had never been interrupted. But Wallace’s stiff- 
ness did not relax; he did not drop into David’s 
room, or do any of the little things that had 
formerly been the natural signs and consequences 
of intimacy. 

For David those were the dullest days of the 
year. The weather was so bad that there were no 
outdoor sports; on account of Wallace’s attitude 
he could not thoroughly enjoy the companionship of 
any one, for somehow the friendship of no one else 
could compensate him for the loss of Wallace’s. 

And then, too, there was the sense that to Wal- 
lace indirectly, to Wallace’s father certainly, he 
was under an obligation that he could never repay. 


PROBATION 


103 


It made him unhappy to dwell on those thoughts, 
and so he occupied himself as much as possible 
with his studies and with reading; and he went 
more often to Mr. Dean’s rooms. He and the master 
took walks together; in the evening sometimes Mr. 
Dean summoned David from the schoolroom and 
asked him to read aloud; it would be usually from 
something that David enjoyed — Thackeray or 
Dickens or Shakespeare. Mr. Dean would sit in 
an armchair before the fire, with his green eye- 
shade over his eyes and his fingers interlocked; 
sometimes he would chuckle over a phrase, or ask 
David to read a passage a second time; and David, 
thus having his attention particularly drawn to 
those passages, was not long in seeing why they 
were noteworthy. Those evenings with Mr. Dean 
were the most pleasant of his diversions, though 
they did not tend to increase his popularity. He 
knew that he was growing more and more to be 
regarded as a grind and, worse than that, as a 
master’s protege. 

Ruth took him to drive one day when the first 
breath of spring was in the air. 

“ Oh,” said Ruth, “ won’t you be glad when it ’s 
summer again? Don’t you get restless at this 
time of year?” 


104 


DAVID IVES 


“ There is n’t much to do in the way of sports,” 
David admitted. 64 Yes, it does get tiresome.” 

‘‘Father says that there’s always more disorder 
just before the spring vacation than at any other 
time — and less studying. Just think of Lester 
Wallace. I wanted to see him win in the gym- 
nasium exhibition — and the foolish boy got into 
trouble instead.” 

“ Yes, it was too bad.” 

“I scolded him for it, and he tried to lay the 
blame on Mr. Dean. But it was too silly! He 
seemed to think that you and Mr. Dean were 
under some obligation to put him through!” 

David’s face clouded over. “ I don’t know about 
Mr. Dean, but I feel under such an obligation. 
Only it has n’t seemed as if Lester wanted my help.” 

“ He ought n’t to want it. I ’m disappointed in 
him. I told him so right out.” 

She sat up straight with her lips firmly together 
and her cheeks flushed ; David, glancing at her, de- 
cided that he should dislike very much hearing 
from her that she was disappointed in him. 

“ I told him,” she went on, “ that he was getting 
dependent on everybody but himself, and that if 
he had any proper spirit he would n’t accept help 
now from any one. And he got sarcastic at 


PROBATION 


105 


that and thanked me for my helpful advice and 
said that he could get along very well without 
any more of it. Since then we’re very cool to 
each other.” 

66 That ’s the way it is with Lester and me,” 
said David. 64 1 dare say I ’ve given him too much 
helpful advice, too.” 

“ Anyway, he ’ll have a good chance to come to 
his senses during the spring vacation. You will 
probably be going home with him, won’t you?” 

“ I ’m not sure yet that I ’m going home. It ’s a 
long trip and pretty expensive.” 

David wondered if Ruth had reported that un- 
certainty of his to her father, for that evening the 
rector summoned him to his study. 

“I should have told you before this,” he said, 
“of a communication that I’ve had from your 
friend, David. He wants you to spend your vaca- 
tion with your family. And so you may regard 
that as arranged.” 

David’s face lighted up. “Isn’t that splendid! 
Oh, I wish you’d tell him, Dr. Davenport, since 
I can’t, how thoughtful and generous I think he 
is!” 

Dr. Davenport smiled. “I’ll convey your ap- 
preciation, though I think he is aware of it.” 


106 


DAVID IVES 


David’s happiness was further increased when 
two days before the close of the term Wallace 
said to him, 44 Want to share a section with me on 
the train west of New York?” 

44 Sure, I do,” David answered. 

“ All right. I ’ll match you for the lower berth.” 

They matched, and David won. 66 I’d just as 
soon take the upper,” he said, but Wallace would 
not consider such a change. 

David was so glad to renew the old relations 
with Wallace that he did not wonder very much 
why there had been any lapse in them. On the 
journey Wallace took a Vergil out of his bag and 
began to study. 

44 I ’m going to make up my Latin this vaca- 
tion,” he explained. 64 1 want to play ball next 
term.” 

46 Let me help you,” urged David. 44 1 ’ll trans- 
late with you if you like.” 

44 No, I told Ruth Davenport I wouldn’t let any- 
body help me after this, and I won’t. She got 
pretty fresh, taking me to task, and I ’ll show 
her.” 

Wallace wore an injured look as he settled 
down in his seat and began to study. After about 
half an hour, he glanced up. 44 Confound it, Dave, 


PROBATION 107 

I’ve got to have help on this! Here, how does 
it go?” 

And David spent most of the journey tutoring 
his friend, and had the satisfaction of feeling that 
in a way he was paying for his trip home. 


CHAPTER VII 


BLINDNESS 

I N the spring vacation David saw little of Wal- 
lace. He lunched one day at his friend’s house 
and felt that he was under Dr. Wallace’s particular 
scrutiny; it made him self-conscious. The sur- 
geon, he observed, looked at him shrewdly from 
time to time, as if measuring him with some men- 
tal standard; David had an uncomfortable feeling 
that he fell short of what was expected. 

However, the doctor’s only comment was favor- 
able enough. “ You lead the form in studies,” he 
said. “Lester tells me you’ve helped him in his 
work. I wish he would work hard enough not to 
need help.” 

“ Well, you saw the Latin books I brought home 
with me,” said Lester in an aggrieved voice. 

“Yes, I saw them, but I haven’t seen you 
using them.” 

“That’s all right; I’m going to. I studied on 
the train, did n’t I, Dave? ” 

And Mrs. Wallace came to his defense. “After 


BLINDNESS 109 

all, boys shouldn’t be expected to study hard in 
their vacations.” 

On the train returning to St. Timothy’s Wallace 
was again accompanied by his Latin books, and 
again invited David’s cooperation. David ob- 
served that he opened to the place at which on 
the homeward journey he had left off and con- 
cluded that Mrs. Wallace’s sympathy had not 
quickened his zeal. Lester was too full of rem- 
iniscences to keep long or steadily at work; he 
would interrupt his studies to relate to David an- 
ecdotes of parties that he had attended or of 
automobile trips that he had made. David listened 
with eager interest and from time to time con- 
scientiously directed his friend’s thoughts back to 
the channels from which they so readily escaped. 
With all his help the amount of ground covered 
in Vergil during that trip was not appreciable. 

The opening of the spring term marked an ac- 
celeration of activities. Outdoor sports at once 
began to flourish. The boat crews practiced every 
afternoon on the ponds; the runners and high 
jumpers, the shot putters and the hammer throwers 
engaged in daily trials at the athletic field; there 
was a race after luncheon every day for the tennis 
courts, and scrub baseball nines occupied the vari- 


110 


DAVID IVES 


ous diamonds. With all that outdoor activity to 
interest and divert him, Lester Wallace did not 
display the immediate improvement in scholarship 
to be expected of one ambitious to remove the 
blight of probation. Particularly in Latin did 
he continue to give imperfect readings; even when 
David tried to help him, he seemed unable to fix 
his attention on the lesson. 

Mr. Dean showed less patience with him than 
ever in the Latin class. “ No, it does n’t do any 
good for you to guess at meanings,” he would say 
when Wallace tried to plunge ahead without having 
prepared the recitation. “ You may sit down.” 

Wallace did not seem disturbed by his failures. 
There was a whole month before the Pythian-Co- 
rinthian baseball game, in which he expected to 
play shortstop for the Pythians; in that time, when 
he set his mind to it, he could easily emancipate 
himself from the shackles of probation. Hen- 
shaw, captain of the Pythians, was more uneasy 
than Wallace. “Don’t you worry, Huby,” Wal- 
lace said in reply to Henshaw’s expression of un- 
easiness. “ When the time comes, I ’ll be all right.” 
And then he would utter some sneering and 
disparaging remark about “old Dean.” He was 
especially fond of making contemptuous comments 


BLINDNESS 


111 


on the master when David could hear them; he 
seemed to take a malicious pleasure in rousing 
David to defense or in seeing him bite his lip in 
vexed silence. 

It seemed to David especially unkind that Wal- 
lace should cherish this grudge when Mr. Dean 
was in a depressed condition of spirits. David 
had noticed the change in the master during the 
preceding term; often he seemed abstracted and 
subdued: and occasionally when he sat with his 
green eye-shade shielding his eyes while David 
read aloud to him, something told the boy that he 
was not listening and that his thoughts were sad. 
Now since the spring vacation Mr. Dean’s manner 
had been even more that of one who was tired 
and troubled. David had perhaps the best oppor- 
tunity of all the boys to judge his condition; 
Mr. Dean sent for him more frequently and, though 
he talked less than had been his wont, seemed to 
enjoy David’s presence in the room or by his side. 

“I hope it doesn’t bore you, David,” he said 
one evening, 64 to come and sit with me and read. 
You mustn’t let me take you away from livelier 
companions.” 

“ Oh, no,” David replied, somewhat embarrassed. 
“ I see enough of the fellows through the day.’* 


112 


DAVID IVES 


“You read very well,” Mr. Dean remarked 
irrelevantly. “ I like to hear you read.” 

David colored with pleasure. “We used to 
take turns reading aloud at home in the evenings,” 
he said. “I always liked reading better than 
being read to.” 

“When you get old you like being read to,” 
replied Mr. Dean. “ As our pleasures diminish in 
number, we enjoy more those that are left — 
which is very fortunate for some of us.” 

David wondered what he meant and why he 
looked so grave. The boy felt that some sorrow 
of which he knew nothing oppressed the master. 
It seemed to him that Mr. Dean did not like to be 
alone; David often wondered what it could be 
that had so visibly affected his spirits. 

The time was not long in coming when he 
learned. One day Monroe was translating in the 
Latin class; the hour was half over; Mr. Dean 
closed his book and laid it on the table. Monroe 
and the other boys looked up in wonder. 

“I shall have to dismiss the class,” Mr. Dean 
said. “ Will David Ives stop and speak with me?” 

There was a strange note in his voice that struck 
awe into the boys. He did not seem to look 
at any one; his face was pale and rigid, and he 


BLINDNESS 


113 


sat grasping the edge of his table as if for support. 
In mute wonderment the boys filed out of the 
room, all except David, who waited in front of 
the platform. 

“David,” said the master, still without moving 
his head, “ is David Ives here?” 

“Yes, right here, Mr. Dean.” David’s voice was 
scared; he could not understand what had hap- 
pened. 

“ Give me your hand, David.” The master put 
out his own gropingly. “ I can’t see, David. I ’m 
blind.” 

“Oh!” cried David. He clasped Mr. Dean’s 
hand. “It — it can’t be serious. It will pass 
off — ” 

“ No, I ’ve known it would come.” Mr. Dean 
rose. “ If you ’ll take me home, David — ” 

Leading the helpless man along the corridor 
and down the stairs, David was too stunned and 
too full of pity to speak. He had not known before 
how much he cared for Mr. Dean, how affectionate 
was the feeling in his heart for him; to have him 
now clasping his arm dependently brought tears 
to his eyes. 

They descended the stairs in silence; the boys 
of other classes were studying in the schoolroom 


114 


DAVID IVES 


or attending recitations; not until David led Mr. 
Dean outdoors did he see any one. Then in front of 
the study he found his classmates waiting in curious 
groups; they watched him with silent astonish- 
ment as he led Mr. Dean away. Monroe and Wal- 
lace and one or two others made signals expressive 
of their desire to know what was wrong, but David 
shook his head without speaking; Mr. Dean walked 
clinging to him, apparently unaware of their 
presence. 

As the two made their way slowly up the path 
to the master’s cottage David looked about him, 
wondering what it must be to be suddenly and 
forever deprived of sight. And to be so stricken 
on such a day in spring, when the new grass shone 
like an emerald, and the elms were living fountains 
of green spray! The boy looked up at the man’s 
face with wonder and compassion — wonder for 
the expression of calmness that he saw, compassion 
for the sightless, spectacled eyes. 

44 It came upon me suddenly in the midst of the 
recitation,” Mr. Dean said. 64 A blur of the page, 
and then blackness. But I wasn’t unprepared for 
it. I have known that this was before me ever 
since last Christmas. For a long time I had been 
having trouble with my eyes that no glasses seemed 



“OH!” CRIED DAVID. HE CLASPED MR. DEAN’S HAND. 

“IT IT can’t BE serious” 


















' 

































BLINDNESS 


115 


to help. When I went to an oculist in Boston 
during the Christmas vacation he told me that 
some time I must expect to suffer total blindness.” 

“But wouldn’t some operation help?” asked 
David. 

“I’m afraid not — from what he told me then 
and from what he has told me at various times 
since. Of course I shall have an examination 
made, but there really isn’t any hope. Well,” 
Mr. Dean added, with an effort to speak cheer- 
fully, “at any rate I shall no longer have to live 
in dread of the moment when the thing happens.” 

When David led him up the path to his door 
he pulled out his keys and fumbled with them. 
“ This is it,” he said at last. “ No, I won’t give 
it to you; I must learn to do things for myself.” 
And after a moment he succeeded in slipping the 
key into the lock and in opening the door. With 
but little help he found his way to his sofa; he 
sat down then wearily. 

“In a moment I shall ask you to do an errand 
for me, David, but first let me tell you about this 
thing. I ’ve told nobody — not even the rector. 
I didn’t want to feel that while I was doing my 
work some one’s sympathetic eyes were always on 
me. When I went to the oculist in the Christmas 


116 


DAVID IVES 


vacation, I thought I merely needed new glasses; 
for some time my sight had been blurred. The 
oculist gave me new glasses, but said that they 
would be of only temporary benefit. When I 
asked him what the trouble was, he explained that 
it was a disease of the ophthalmic nerves. I asked 
him if it was liable to be serious; he hesitated 
and then said that it might be — very. I told 
him that it was important I should know the whole 
story, and then I learned that the disease was 
progressive and incurable, and that the final catas- 
trophe might be sudden. He did not know how 
soon — he thought probably within a year. Well, 
I did not rest content with his opinion; I went to 
other oculists ; all said the same thing. Ever since 
the spring vacation I have known that this was 
imminent — that it was a matter not of months 
but of days. I have been trying to prepare for 
it; but it’s the sort of thing a man can’t prepare 
for very well.” He smiled faintly. “I’ve prac- 
ticed doing things with my eyes closed, dressing, 
undressing, putting things away, finding my way 
about my room. I think that within these four 
walls I can take care of myself after a fashion. 
But there ’s no disguising the fact that from now on 
for the rest of my life I shall be one of the de- 
pendent; that’s the thing that comes hard.” 


BLINDNESS 117 

“I shall be glad to be of help to you in any 
way I can,” said David. 

“Thank you, my boy. I felt that you would; 
that’s why I asked you to help me now. I want 
Dr. Vincent to go down to Boston with me this 
afternoon if he will; I want him to hear what the 
oculist says so that in case there is any possibility 
of remedy by operation he can advise me. If 
you’ll send him to me, and if you’ll also tell the 
rector — I don’t think of anything else at present.” 

David went at once upon his errands. The 
concern with which both Dr. Vincent and the rector 
heard him and with which they hastened to the 
afflicted man was hardly greater than that of the 
boys when David told them what had taken place. 

“Poor old duck!” said Monroe sympathetically. 
“ I never thought he had anything like that the 
matter with him. It makes me feel kind of mean 
that I ever roasted him.” 

Harry Clarke wondered whether he had any 
money — enough to live on. 

“ If he has n’t, the school ought to pension him,” 
said Tom Henderson. “How long has he been 
here — nearly forty years?” 

“ I guess they won’t let him starve ; I guess the 
alumni would see to that,” remarked Wallace. 


118 


DAVID IVES 


66 Pretty tough, though — just to sit in the dark 
and wait for death,” said Clarke. 

“ I can’t imagine anything worse,” agreed Hen- 
derson. 

But after the first pitying comments they did 
not concern themselves with Mr. Dean’s plight; 
their own affairs were too absorbing. That after- 
noon the Corinthians and the Pythians held their 
baseball practice just as usual; of all the partic- 
ipants David was perhaps alone in being pre- 
occupied and heavy-hearted. He had come so 
much nearer to Mr. Dean than any of the others, 
had been so bound by gratitude and affection to 
him on account of the master’s tenderness when 
he was overwhelmed with sorrow, that he could 
not lightly dismiss that helpless figure from his 
thoughts. So his playing was mechanical and 
listless; he could take no part in the brisk dialogue, 
the lively chatter that prevailed. It was quite 
otherwise with Lester Wallace, who played bril- 
liantly at first base and who in the intervals of 
batting practice bubbled over with enthusiasm 
about his own feelings. 

“Wish we were playing a real game to-day,” 
said Lester. “ I ’ve got my batting eye right with 
me, and my wing feels fine. Some days I can 


BLINDNESS 


119 


whip ’em over to third better than others; this 
is my day all right.” 

“You bet; keep up this clip and you’re going 
to play first on the school nine,” remarked Hen- 
derson. 

“ Dave Ives here is some live wire in that posi- 
tion,” Wallace answered. 

“ Oh, Dave will do for a substitute,” said Hen- 
derson candidly. “ If you get off probation, 
Lester, you’ll have the position cinched.” 

“ I ’ll get off all right. It won’t be such a job 
either — now that some one else will take Mr. 
Dean’s place.” 

That remark, more than Henderson’s frankness, 
made David wince. That Wallace could imagine 
any advantages accruing to himself from Mr. 
Dean’s misfortune was most unpleasant. 

Upon the impulse David spoke. “You know 
perfectly well there isn’t a fairer-minded man 
than Mr. Dean in this school.” 

Wallace flushed. “ I was n’t trying to run him 
down, even if he always has had it in for me.” 

David made no response; the disclaimer was as 
unkind as the innuendo. 

Two days later Mr. Dean returned to the school. 
He sent for David at noon; David, entering his 


120 DAVID IVES 

study, found him sitting at the desk with a pen 
in his hand. 

“I’m trying to learn to write,” Mr. Dean ex- 
plained as he laid down the pen and held out his 
hand. “Take up the page, David, and tell me 
whether I overrun it or crowd lines and words 
together. What is my tendency?” 

“ It ’s all perfectly clear, only you waste a good 
deal of paper; you space your lines far apart and 
get only a few words to a line,” David said. 

“That’s erring on the safe side, anyway. What’s 
going to bother me most will be to know when the 
ink in my fountain pen runs dry. It would be ex- 
asperating to write page after page and then 
learn that I hadn’t made a mark!” Mr. Dean 
laughed cheerfully. “Well, the trip to Boston 
didn’t result in any encouragement; I knew it 
would n’t. I ’ve been talking with the rector this 
morning, and I ’m to go ahead with my work here. 
The fact is, I ’ve been teaching Caesar, Vergil, and 
Horace for so many years that I know them almost 
by heart — sufficiently well to be able to follow 
the translation if some one reads the Latin passage 
to me first. I wanted to ask you if you would pilot 
me to the classroom and home again — for a few 
days at least; I expect in a short time to be able 
to get about all alone.” 


BLINDNESS 


121 


“ Of course,” said David, and then he ex- 
claimed, “ It’s fine that you’ll be able to keep 
on; it’s wonderful!” 

“ It ’s generous of the rector to permit it,” said 
Mr. Dean. “ I sha n’t be of any use for dis- 
ciplinary purposes any more; I shall be relieved 
of the side of teaching that I have always disliked, 
so my misfortune is not without its compensations.” 

“ I ’m awfully glad you ’re not going to leave 
us,” David said. “And you’ll find that all the 
fellows will want to help you.” 

That afternoon when all the boys were assembled 
in the schoolroom for the first hour of study, Dr. 
Davenport entered and, mounting the platform, 
stood beside Mr. Randolph, the master in charge. 
The boys turned from their desks and looked up at 
him expectantly. 

“As you have all been grieved to learn,” said 
Mr. Davenport, “of the affliction that has come 
upon the oldest and best loved of our masters, 
so, I am sure, you will be glad to hear that he is 
not to be lost to us, but will continue to do his 
work here, even under this heavy handicap. We 
have all of us always respected and admired his 
scholarship; we must do so even more now when 
it is equal to the task of conducting recitations 


122 


DAVID IVES 


without reference to the printed page. We have 
all of us always respected and admired his spirit 
of devotion; even more must we admire it now 
and the fortitude that accompanies it. I do not 
believe there is a boy here who would take ad- 
vantage of an infirmity so bravely borne, and I 
hope that those of you who have classes with him 
will try to show by increased attention and con- 
siderateness your appreciation of his spirit.” 

Dr. Davenport stepped down from the platform 
and walked out of the room, leaving it to its 
studious quiet. 

At the end of the hour, in the five-minute inter- 
mission, David heard Monroe say to Wallace, 
“Pretty good little talk of the rector’s; right idea.” 

“ Oh, sure,” Wallace answered. 


CHAPTER VIII 


WALLACE’S EXAMINATION 
ONELINESS was at least one misery that the 



J — J afflicted schoolmaster did not have to experi- 
ence. His colleagues were all attentive to him and 
tried to relieve the monotony of the hours. Among 
the older boys were many who came to see him in 
his rooms and offered their services for reading or 
for guiding him on walks or for writing at his 
dictation. He welcomed them all, he gave each 
one the pleasure of doing something for him and 
himself took pleasure in the friendly thought, but 
it soon became evident that there were two or three 
out of the whole number of volunteers on whom 
he especially depended. Mr. Randolph, the Eng- 
lish teacher, and Mr. Delange, the French teacher, 
were his most intimate and devoted friends among 
the masters; but on David even more than on them 
he seemed to rely for little services. Thus it was 
David that every morning after breakfast walked 
with him to chapel; it was David that led him 
back to his house at the end of the daily fifth-form 


124 


DAVID IVES 


Latin recitation; it was David that usually con- 
ducted him in the afternoons to the athletic grounds. 
Always an interested observer of the sports, Mr. 
Dean declared now that he would continue to fol- 
low them even if he could not see ; and so on almost 
every pleasant day during the recreation hour he 
was to be found seated on the piazza of the athletic 
house that overlooked the running track and the 
playing field. One boy after another would come 
and sit beside him and tell him what was going 
on; in the intervals of their activity ball-players 
and runners would visit him and receive a word 
of congratulation for success or of joking reproof 
for failure; sometimes he would ask his companion 
of the moment not to enlighten him as to the prog- 
ress of the game, but to let him guess from the 
sounds and the shouts what was taking place; his 
pleasure when he guessed correctly was enthusiastic 
and touching. 

“ Try watching a game sometime with your eyes 
shut,” he suggested to David. 66 You ’d find there ’s 
a certain amount of interest in it. You ’ll be sur- 
prised to find how successfully ears are capable of 
substituting for eyes.” 

Just then Lester Wallace, who had made a run 
in the Pythians’ practice game, came up saying, 
“How are you, Mr. Dean? This is Wallace.” 


WALLACE’S EXAMINATION 


125 


“ Good ; that was a fine clean hit of yours just 
now. I said to David the moment I heard the 
crack, ‘There goes a base hit.’ Don’t forget that 
the Pythians need your batting, Wallace.” 

“That’s one thing I wanted to ask you about, 
Mr. Dean.” Wallace glanced at David some- 
what sheepishly. “ When do you think I ’ll get 
off probation?” 

“ I would n’t undertake to predict about that.” 
If there was no longer any twinkle behind the dark 
glasses that Mr. Dean now wore, there was a genial 
puckering of the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. 
“But I can tell you perhaps when you’ll have 
an opportunity to get off probation. The game 
with the Corinthians is a week from to-day, isn’t 
it? Well, you come to me in the noon intermission 
that day, and I ’ll give you an oral examination.” 

“You don’t think I could get off any earlier?” 

“ I ’m very much afraid, Wallace, that you need 
all the time I can give you.” 

“ Have n’t my recitations been better lately, Mr. 
Dean?” 

“Yes, there has been a decided improvement. 
I ’ve noticed it, and I ’ve appreciated it, Wallace. 
For I thought that it was due not only to a regard 
for your own welfare, but also to a kindly con- 
sideration for me.” 


126 


DAVID IVES 


He put out his hand gropingly and patted the 
boy’s leg. David noticed that Wallace flushed and 
looked momentarily unhappy; then an unpleasant, 
sulky expression appeared on his face. 

“If my mark has improved so much and I go 
on reciting well in class, I don’t see why I should 
have to stand an examination.” 

“ Only because it ’s the rule, and we can’t make 
exceptions. I shall let your work in the classroom 
count towards your efforts to regain your freedom, 
but the examination must be important, too.” 

Wallace’s acceptance of that decision did not 
seem to David particularly gracious, nor did the 
dissatisfied look vanish from his face. He with- 
drew after a few moments. 

Mr. Dean remarked rather sadly to David; “I 
don’t seem ever quite to get hold of Wallace. 
There ’s something there, but I don’t reach him.” 

“ He ’ll be all right when he ’s off probation,” 
David said. “And I think he really has been 
working harder; I’ve thought his recitations were 
much better lately.” 

“Yes, there’s no doubt of that, and perhaps 
it’s my fault that when we meet he’s not more 
responsive. Every one of us is Dr. Fell to some- 
body, I suppose, and there ’s no use in blaming that 


WALLACE’S EXAMINATION 


127 


somebody for what he can’t help. There, who hit 
that crack? That must have been a good one.” 

“ Henshaw — long fly to center; Morris got under 
it all right. The Corinthians are going out for 
practice now, Mr. Dean.” 

“All right; good luck. Put up a star game at 
first, so that you can tell me about it when you 
come in.” 

David laughed and departed; looking back, he 
was glad to see that some one already had taken 
his place beside Mr. Dean’s chair. 

He played well that afternoon and had the satis- 
faction of being commended by the captain, Tread- 
way, as well as by Mr. Dean. When he came out 
of the athletic house after dressing, the master 
was gone; David walked up to the dormitory with 
Wallace. 

“I wish I were off probation now,” Wallace 
said. “ It seems to me Mr. Dean likes to keep me 
in suspense; this idea of not knowing until the 
day of the game whether I can play or not!” 

“ Oh, you ’ll be able to play,” David assured 
him. “You’ve been doing well in class lately; 
there’s no doubt about your getting through the 
examination. If you want me to help you at all, 
I’ll be glad to do it.” 


128 


DAVID IVES 


“I guess I can get off probation without your 
help,” said Wallace ungraciously. 

“Excuse me for speaking,” replied David, and 
he walked on, flushed and silent. 

Wallace spoke after a moment. “Hold on, 
Dave; don’t be so short with a fellow. I didn’t 
mean to speak as I did. It was just that I — well, 
I don’t want you to feel that I need to be helped 
all the time — as if I couldn’t do anything for 
myself.” 

He looked at the ground and seemed in spite 
of his words somewhat shamefaced. But David 
paid no heed to that; his response to the appeal 
was immediate. 

“Of course you can do anything you set your 
mind to,” he said heartily, linking arms with Wal- 
lace. “And I should think you would feel I was 
a fresh, conceited lobster to come butting in always 
as if I thought you couldn’t get along without 
me. The recitations you’ve been giving lately 
have been as good as any one’s ; and of course you 
ought to have all the credit yourself when you 
get off probation. Your father will be awfully 
pleased.” 

“Oh, I guess he won’t care. Just so long as I 
get through my examinations — that’s all that he 
takes any interest in.” 


WALLACE’S EXAMINATION 


129 


“ He probably takes more interest than you 
think — of course he does — an old St. Timothy’s 
boy himself!” 

66 Oh, well, I dare say.” For some reason Wal- 
lace was out of sorts. He added, however, with 
more spirit: “Of course he’d like to see me play 
on the nine. He was on it when he was here. I 
wish I could always be sure of lining them out 
the way I did to-day.” 

They talked baseball during the rest of the walk, 
and Wallace’s spirits seemed to improve. 

Indeed, as the days went on David could see no 
reason for Wallace’s moodiness. On the ball field 
Wallace was playing so brilliantly and received 
from team mates and spectators so much apprecia- 
tion that he had no reason to feel dissatisfied; 
never had his popularity and importance in the 
school been greater. And so far as scholarship 
was concerned, the improvement that he was mak- 
ing was notable. In mathematics, French, and 
English he had never been under any disqualifica- 
tions, but he now was taking rank among the first 
in the class. In Latin, the study in which he 
had always been weak and indifferent, his trans- 
lations had become surprisingly fluent and correct. 
He sat by himself in a corner of the recitation 


130 


DAVID IVES 


room, holding his book down between his knees 
and bending over it in an attitude of supreme 
concentration; his nearest neighbor seldom saw 
him raise his eyes and never had a glimpse of 
the text over which he pored. When Mr. Dean 
called on him, he rose and, raising the book in his 
arms and with bent head, read the Latin lines, 
then slowly but accurately translated, scarcely ever 
stumbling over a word. Mr. Dean had a variety 
of commendatory expressions for his work — 
“Good,” “Very well rendered indeed,” “Good 
idiomatic English — the kind of translation I like ; 
I wish some of you other fellows would not be 
so slavishly literal.” Wallace would sit down 
with a face unresponsive to such comments and 
would again huddle over his book with absorbed 
attention. 

David and some of the other fellows commented 
among themselves upon those recitations. 

“I didn’t know Lester was so bright,” said 
Monroe. “ I guess there ’s nothing that boy can’t do 
if he puts his mind to it.” 

“I guess there isn’t,” David agreed loyally. 
“He gets it from his father; Dr. Wallace is a 
wonder.” 

So impressive was the sudden manifestation of 


WALLACE’S EXAMINATION 131 


Wallace’s intellectual prowess and so widely her- 
alded the report of it that he was elected into 
the Pen and Ink Society, an organization of boys 
with scholarly and literary inclinations. The news 
of this election, however, he took with bad grace; 
he declared himself entirely out of sympathy with 
the purposes of the institution and expressed vi- 
olently a resolve not to be drafted into the ranks 
of the 66 high-brows.” The dejected emissaries of 
the Pen and Ink had to report to their society 
that Wallace had declined the election without 
even seeming sensible of the honor that had been 
done him, and the popularity that Wallace had 
achieved suffered somewhat in consequence. Some 
of the aggrieved members told Ruth Davenport of 
the slight that had been put on their society, and 
Ruth, when next she met Wallace, took him to task 
for it. 

“ Why,” she asked, “ did you want to be so 
grouchy?” 

66 1 wasn’t grouchy,” Wallace replied, though 
his manner at the moment might have been so 
described. “I just felt I didn’t belong in that 
crowd.” 

“You might have shown them you appreciated 
the honor.” 


132 


DAVID IVES 


“ Oh, I might have if I ’d felt I deserved it.” 

“ If you ’d only said something like that to 
them!” 

“ Well, I did n’t deserve it, and I knew it better 
than they did; and I didn’t want to be bothered.” 
He looked past Ruth with an expression at once 
discontented and defiant. 

“You’re an awfully funny person.” Ruth’s 
eyes twinkled and her lips curved into a smile. 
“ You ’re so modest that you think you ’re not good 
enough for them, and yet you make them think 
they’re not good enough for you!” 

He did not respond to her gayety, but said in 
a rather surly voice : “ I don’t care what they think. 
I ’m interested in baseball, not in silly scribblings.” 

The bell rang, summoning him to the school- 
room, and Ruth walked away, feeling that she 
had been rebuffed by one of her friends. 

It was impossible for her, however, and for 
such members of the Pen and Ink as were daily 
spectators of the Pythians’ baseball practice, not 
to admire Wallace’s playing, not to be enchanted 
by the speed and accuracy of his throwing, the 
cleanness of his fielding, and the strength and sure- 
ness of his batting. “The best infielder in the 
school,” the fellows said; “the best infielder 


WALLACE’S EXAMINATION 


133 


there ’s ever been in the school,” asserted the 
younger enthusiasts, as if from a fullness of knowl- 
edge. Any way, Ruth and even the most incensed 
members of the scorned society felt as they 
watched his enviable performances that they must 
forgive much to the possessor of such talent — 
and sighed in their different ways over his inacces- 
sibility to advances. 

“ You ’ve certainly got to get off probation,” said 
Henshaw to Wallace the day before the game. 

“Oh, I’ll get off all right,” Wallace assured 
him. “I’m to have a special oral examination 
to-morrow at noon. You can count on me.” 

The fifth-form Latin recitation came at the hour 
immediately preceding that set for Wallace’s test. 
On the way to the classroom he showed annoyance 
and irritation to those who crowded round him to 
express their eager wishes for his success. “You 
need n’t hang about and wait for news,” he said 
when Hudson, the Pythian short-stop, had hoped 
that the suspense would not last long. “I’ll be 
all right, and I don’t want a gang looking round 
when I come out.” 

Hudson dropped back and remarked to David 
that he was afraid Wallace’s nerves were pretty 
much on edge. 


134 


DAVID IVES 


At the end of the recitation hour, while all the 
other fellows were moving toward the door, Wal- 
lace kept his seat at the back of the room. Mr. 
Dean asked David to stop and speak with him a 
moment; he told him that Wallace’s examination 
would last about fifteen minutes, and that then he 
would as usual be glad to have David’s assistance 
in walking home. So David returned to the school- 
room and proceeded to work on the problems in 
algebra assigned for the afternoon. He had finished 
one and was halfway through another when a glance 
at the clock told him that it was time to be going 
to Mr. Dean’s assistance — and also, no doubt, to 
Wallace’s relief. 

The examination was still proceeding when he 
entered the classroom and sat down near the door. 
Wallace had moved forward and was occupying a 
seat immediately under Mr. Dean; he looked up, 
startled, when David appeared and then at once 
huddled himself over his book, which he entirely 
embraced with arms and knees. He continued in a 
rather mumbling and hesitating voice with his 
translation, but the halting utterance did not dis- 
guise the accuracy of the rendering; David, listen- 
ing, was glad to be assured that Wallace was 
acquitting himself so brilliantly. Mr. Dean in- 
terrupted the translation after a moment to say: 


WALLACE’S EXAMINATION 


135 


64 Is that you, David?” 

44 Yes, right here,” David answered. 

44 Lester and I will be finished in a few moments. 
We won’t keep you waiting long.” 

44 If it’s just about walking home, Mr. Dean,” 
Wallace said, “David needn’t stay; I shall be 
glad to walk home with you if you ’ll let me.” He 
spoke with eagerness, and Mr. Dean in his reply 
showed pleasure. 

“Thank you. All right, David; I won’t detain 
you then any longer.” 

As David departed he felt that Wallace had 
found his presence unwelcome, and he was glad to 
remove himself from his position of involuntary 
listener and critic. Besides, he could make good 
use of the time in finishing his algebra exercises. 

He returned to the schoolroom and was hard at 
work when Wallace entered, passed him with brisk 
steps crying, “I’m all right; off probation!” and, 
opening his desk, which was just behind David’s, 
tossed his book into it. Then, without waiting for 
any congratulations, Wallace hurried out to join 
Mr. Dean. 

David, to his annoyance and perplexity, found 
that he had gone astray in some of his processes 
and that his solution was wrong. Inspection 


136 


DAVID IVES 


showed him where he had blundered; he opened 
his desk and looked for his eraser. It was not 
there, and he remembered having lent it to Wal- 
lace the night before. He got up and opened 
Wallace’s desk; the confusion of books and papers 
daunted him, but he proceeded to search. Then 
the topmost book, the one that Wallace had de- 
posited there a few moments before, arrested his 
attention; it was not the edition of Vergil that the 
class used. He opened it out of curiosity and 
stood there gazing at its pages with a stricken 
interest. 

The book was of that variety known in St. Tim- 
othy’s parlance as a “trot.” Alternating with the 
lines of Latin text were lines of English translation. 
The correctness and fluency of Wallace’s recitations 
were explained. So also was his huddling over 
his book, his shielding it so carefully from any 
one’s gaze. 

David put the book down and closed the desk 
without carrying any further the search for the 
eraser. 


CHAPTER IX 
DAVID’S ENLIGHTENMENT 


A FTER closing Wallace’s desk upon his secret 
David walked slowly over to the dormitory. 
He felt bewildered and uncertain. Something 
that had been precious to him, something to 
which he had clung, had suddenly and utterly been 
shattered. To get the better of a master in any 
way that you could was, he knew, the code of many 
fellows, and in ordinary circumstances, where the 
master had what the boys termed “a sporting 
chance,” a resort to subterfuges and deceptions did 
not necessarily imply depravity. But to take ad- 
vantage of a blind man — that was base. 

David arrived at his room five minutes before 
the hour for luncheon. Happy excitement over the 
contest of the afternoon in which he was to play 
a part had faded; in its place there seemed only 
a dull ache of disappointment and loss. There 
came to him memories of Wallace’s generous 
friendship — of the day when he had supported 
him in his fight with Henshaw, of the time when 


138 


DAVID IVES 


he had given him his running shoes, of the little 
acts of kindness; and he wondered now why it was 
that he could not overlook the discovery that he 
had just made and feel toward Wallace as he had 
always done. 

The dinner bell rang; descending the stairs, 
David encountered Wallace at the bottom. Wal- 
lace was radiant, slapped him on the shoulders 
and cried : 66 1 ’ll get your goat this afternoon, 
Dave. How are you feeling? Fine?” 

“Not especially,” David answered; indeed, he 
felt himself shrinking under his friend’s touch. 
He knew now that he could not assume the old 
exuberant geniality and that until he had given 
Wallace an opportunity to explain he could not 
keep up even the pretense of warm friendship. 

Wallace did not notice his coolness; he saw 
another friend and made for him. At the luncheon 
table Henshaw and Monroe and others expressed 
their satisfaction that Wallace was saved to the 
Pythian team and, more important still, to the 
school team. David wondered whether they thought 
he was jealous or envious or unsportsmanlike be- 
cause he did not join in the remarks. He supposed 
they did think so, but that could add little to his 
unhappiness. 


DAVID’S ENLIGHTENMENT 


139 


As a matter of fact, once out on the field he 
was able to forget his depressing preoccupations; 
the lively work of the preliminary practice restored 
his zest for the game. And when it began he was 
as keen to do his best, as eager to win, as any 
one on the Corinthian nine. But victory did not 
perch on the Corinthian banner, in spite of the 
loyal support of the 66 rooters ” along the third-base 
line, in spite of the desperate efforts of catcher 
and captain and whole infield to steady a waver- 
ing pitcher, in spite of a ninth-inning rally, when 
a shower of hits by seemingly inspired batters 
brought in three runs that were within one of tying 
the score. The Pythians triumphed, eight runs to 
seven, and unquestionably the chief honors be- 
longed to Wallace. His home run, a smashing 
hit to left center in the third inning, brought in 
two others; and his double in the seventh sent what 
proved to be the winning tally across the plate. 
Moreover, it was his leaping one-hand catch of a 
hot liner from Treadway’s bat that closed the game 
when the Corinthians were most threatening. 

David, crouched forward on the players’ bench 
in nervous intentness when that incident happened, 
felt a pang of disappointment, then a throb of 
admiration for the brilliant catch and of gladness 


140 


DAVID IVES 


for him who had made it, and then the chill of 
despondency; there could be no real heartiness in 
any congratulations that he might offer to his old 
friend. The Pythian crowd was rallying round 
Wallace; in another moment he was hoisted on 
their shoulders and was being borne exuberantly 
toward the athletic house, while spectators and 
players streamed in his wake. David, walking 
slowly, overtook Mr. Dean, who arm in arm with 
Mr. Randolph was leaving the field. 

“A pretty good rally that you fellows made, 
David,” said Mr.‘ Randolph. “If it hadn’t been 
for that catch of Wallace’s you might have beaten 
them.” 

“Yes, yes!” Mr. Dean chuckled. “Wallace 
was too much for your team, David. It seemed 
to me that I kept hearing the crack of his bat and 
the thud of his glove all through the game. Well, 
he earned his right to play, and I ’m glad he dis- 
tinguished himself.” 

“He certainly played a wonderful game,” was 
all that David could say in reply. 

In the athletic house Wallace was still surrounded 
by his admirers. David dressed hastily and went 
to his room. He shut himself in there and thought. 
If he told Wallace what he had discovered and 


DAVID’S ENLIGHTENMENT 


141 


what he suspected and how the suspected act of 
dishonesty had made him feel, what would be 
the result? Wallace would probably always shun 
him henceforth, and he would always be uncom- 
fortable when Wallace was present. Intimacy be- 
tween them would die. And then — David knitted 
his brows over this question — could he afford to 
return to St. Timothy’s for another year at Dr. 
Wallace’s expense? Would he not feel ashamed 
to do it? Would not Lester Wallace be justified 
in that case in looking at him with a sneer? It did 
not take David long to determine what must be 
the answer. No; in such circumstances to continue 
to be the beneficiary of Dr. Wallace’s bounty would 
be intolerable. David realized that his career at 
St. Timothy’s must come to an untimely end. 

With that thought in mind, gazing out of the 
window at the pleasant, sun-swept lawns and the 
ivy-covered buildings, he felt sad and sorrowful. 
He did not want to leave prematurely this place 
that he had learned to love and that was to have 
been — had already been — so helpful in his de- 
velopment. But schooling purchased at the sac- 
rifice of self-respect would cost too dear. To 
preserve his self-respect he must not play any false 
part toward Wallace; he must let him know exactly 


142 


DAVID IVES 


what he had discovered and what a change in his 
feelings the discovery had made. 

Fifteen minutes later, on his way to the study, 
he met Ruth Davenport and Lester Wallace. David 
touched his cap and was passing on when Ruth 
stopped him. 

“Wasn’t he the wonder, David!” she exclaimed 
with a sidelong laugh at Wallace. “ Do you sup- 
pose that after all he did to-day he’ll have any- 
thing left to show against St. John’s?” 

“Oh, just as much,” David answered lightly. 

Wallace laughed ; he was in high spirits. “ Well, 
if I don’t, they ’ll have a mighty good substitute 
to use in my place.” He clapped David on the 
shoulder. 

“ Yes,” Ruth agreed. “ It ’s a shame, David, 
that you both can’t play. But anyway it will be 
much nicer for Mr. Dean; he told me that you 
help him to see a game better than any one else. 
There he comes now with father. Good-bye.” 
She darted across the road and went skipping to 
meet the rector and Mr. Dean. 

Wallace linked arms with David and started 
toward the study. “You put up a cracking good 
game, too, Dave. Next year you must try playing 
second base. Adams won’t be coming back, and 


DAVID’S ENLIGHTENMENT 


143 


you ought to be able to get the place on the school 
nine. We’d make a good team, you and I, at 
first and second.” 

“ I probably sha n’t be coming back next year,” 
David answered. 

Wallace dropped his arm and looked at him 
with amazement and consternation. 

“Why? What’s the trouble?” 

“ Oh, it just looks as if it would n’t be possible. 
But I want to talk to you about something else, 
Lester. You remember I was sitting in the school- 
room when you came in after your examination at 
noon?” 

“ Yes.” Wallace shot at him a glance of sharp 
suspicion. 

“After you’d gone,” David continued with a 
tremor of nervousness in his voice, “ I wanted an 
eraser; I couldn’t find mine, and I looked in your 
desk for it. I saw the book that was lying on top 
of the others. I suppose it was the one you had 
just been using in your examination.” 

Wallace’s face had turned a dull red. He 
hesitated a moment, then he said quietly, “ Yes, 
it was.” 

“ I did n’t suppose you ’d do that kind of thing, 
Lester,” said David. “If you’d done it to any- 
body else — but to a man that’s blind!” 


144 


DAVID IVES 


Wallace was silent. David, glancing at him as 
they walked, saw that his head was downcast and 
his face still red. The sight made David, who had 
been steeling himself to be hard, soften and want 
to say, “ 0 Lester, we ’ll forget it, we ’ll never 
think of it again!” But he knew that could not be 
true, and he walked on, silent. 

“I was ashamed of it, Dave,” Wallace said at 
last in a low voice. “I used the book in class — 
that ’s how my recitations happened to be so good. 
That’s how I got a reputation for being so bright 
— my election to the Pen and Ink. You know I 
wouldn’t take it, Dave.” He spoke with appeal 
in his voice. “ I was ashamed to do that.” 

They were approaching the study; they crossed 
the road to avoid groups of boys who were stand- 
ing in front of the building. “ What you fellows 
having a heart-to-heart about?” called Adams, who 
had played second base on the Corinthian nine. 
Wallace made no answer; David waved a hand in 
reply. They walked slowly on — for a time in 
silence. Then Wallace spoke again: 

“I found the book just by chance in a second- 
hand bookstore in town. It was n’t as if I ’d done 
anything to injure Mr. Dean. It couldn’t hurt 
him in any way.” His tone was pleading rather 
than defiant. 


DAVID’S ENLIGHTENMENT 145 

“No,” David said. “But it wasn’t straight. 
Don’t you see?” 

“ I did n’t always read the translation,” Wallace 
pleaded. “ I only looked at it when I had to.” 

“ If it had been anybody but a blind man.” 

“Lots of fellows crib any way they can.” 

“Not with Mr. Dean.” 

“You’re dippy about him; you take it worse 
than he would himself!” Wallace’s manner had 
become resentful instead of appealing. 

“I can’t help it, Lester. Here’s a thing that 
I ’ve found out about you, and I ’ve got to be honest 
and tell you how it ’s made me feel.” 

“All right; it’s just the opinion of a prig. I 
guess you’re right in leaving; you’re too good to 
live in this school.” 

Wallace’s voice had grown suddenly bitter with 
anger, and his eyes, raised at last to meet David’s 
fairly, were hard and bright. 

“Well,” said David flushing, “perhaps I am a 
prig. Anyway, you can’t be more disappointed in 
me than I am in you.” 

The study bell rang out; David wheeled and 
walked briskly to the schoolroom while Wallace 
followed at a slower pace. In the hour of study 
David’s thoughts kept straying from his books. 


146 


DAVID IVES 


He knew now that he had hoped Wallace might 
have some explanation, some defense. His little 
world was in ruins, and he had done his best. He 
was not sure that he had not been the prig that 
Wallace styled him. Anyway, it was the end 
of friendship between him and Wallace — and 
that meant the end of his term at St. Timothy’s 
School. 

That evening after supper Clarence Monroe 
brought David word that Mr. Dean would like to 
see him at his house for a few minutes. He found 
the master lying on his lounge, with his hands 
under his head. 

“ I was fortunate enough to learn a lot of poetry 
in my youth,” said Mr. Dean when David entered. 
“ It helps me now to while away the time, and 
passages that I thought I had long since forgotten 
keep coming back to me. Of course there are gaps, 
and it’s very trying not to be able to fill them at 
once — to have to wait until I can find some one 
to look the missing lines up for me. Just now I ’ve 
been dredging my memory in vain; do you re- 
member the lines: 

“Therefore am I still 

A lover of the meadows and the woods 
And mountains?” 


DAVID’S ENLIGHTENMENT 147 

“No,” David acknowledged. “I don’t know 
where they ’re found.” 

“They’re from Wordsworth’s poem on Tintern 
Abbey. But I can’t remember just what comes 
after; you’ll find Wordsworth on that second 
shelf.” 

David soon turned to the passage and began to 
read it, but Mr. Dean took the words out of his 
mouth and recited them to the close. 

“Now, I shouldn’t lose them again,” he said. 
“ But you see how it is — living alone here. Some- 
times I can call my housekeeper to my assistance, 
but she hasn’t much feeling for poetry, excellent 
housekeeper though she is; and a sympathetic soul 
in such a matter is important — an ear to hear 
and a mind to comprehend! Well, David, I sent 
for you because I wanted to talk to you a little 
about my plans.” 

David waited, silent in mystification. 

“I told Dr. Davenport that I should of course 
resign my position at the end of the year,” con- 
tinued Mr. Dean. “ I felt that I was too seriously 
handicapped to be of much service. To my surprise 
Dr. Davenport said that if I presented my resigna- 
tion he wouldn’t accept it. He seemed to think 
that I could still be of use to the school. Of course 


143 


DAVID IVES 


it pleased and touched me very much that he 
should think so. But I realize that I shall need a 
regular helper in my work ; this term I ’ve been 
depending on the good nature of this person or 
that person. I ’ve hesitated to ask you ; yet I ’ve 
wondered if you would make the sacrifice of 
coming and living here with me instead of with 
the fellows of your age and class?” 

“ It would n’t be any sacrifice, Mr. Dean. But ” 
— David hesitated a moment — “I’m afraid I 
sha n’t be coming back next year.” 

“Not coming back!” Mr. Dean’s voice rang 
with astonishment, and he turned his head to- 
ward David as if he still could see. “ Is it some 
family difficulty, David? Your mother needs you 
at home, you think?” 

“ No, it is n’t that,” David answered reluctantly. 
“ She does n’t know yet that I can’t come back.” 

“It’s a matter, then, of very recent decision?” 

“Yes. Just within a day or two I — I found it 
out.” 

“Couldn’t you take me a little into your con- 
fidence, David? ” 

46 It ’s — it ’s just that Lester Wallace and I are n’t 
on good terms any more,” David said. “And I 
can’t let his father go on helping me, even if he 
should be willing to.” 


DAVID’S ENLIGHTENMENT 


149 


66 Is that a necessary conclusion? Just because 
you and Wallace have had a falling-out that, I 
hope, will be only temporary — ” 

“ No, Mr. Dean, it is n’t that. It ’s more serious. 
After what has happened I simply could n’t accept 
anything more from Dr. Wallace — I couldn’t, 
that’s all.” 

Mr. Dean deliberated for a few minutes. “ I ’m 
very sorry that your friendship has been broken. 
But as to the other matter — has it ever occurred to 
you to doubt that it is Dr. Wallace that is sending 
you to St. Timothy’s?” 

“ Why, no; who else could it be?” 

Mr. Dean smiled. “ Oh, that you may try to 
guess. But it is not Dr. Wallace; that I happen 
to know.” 

66 It isn’t!” The master could not see David’s 
wide, astonished eyes, but he could recognize the 
sound of amazement in his voice. “ Then who 
can it be? Oh, I know! Mr. Dean! Mr. Dean!” 

David dropped on one knee beside the couch 
and grasped his friend’s hand. 

“I didn’t intend to take you into my secret 
until the end of your school career,” said Mr. 
Dean, squeezing the boy’s hand affectionately. “I 
thought it would be better for you, less embarrass- 


150 


DAVID IVES 


ing, if you didn’t feel under obligation to one in 
the immediate neighborhood. But since you’ve 
guessed it — well, you must try to go on regarding 
me exactly as before.” 

“ All right; I ’ll try.” The very sound of David’s 
laugh was grateful and affectionate. “ But I don’t 
see why you ever did all this for me, Mr. Dean.” 

44 1 did it because I liked you and because I 
liked your father. I haven’t any near relatives, 
David, and I have more money than I need for 
my own use. You see, the reasons were very 
simple. And now that you’ve wormed all this 
out of me — which you never should have done — 
will you come and live here with me next year?” 

44 0f course I will! What is there that I should 
like better?” 

At that moment there was a knock on the door. 

“Come in,” said Mr. Dean. 

It was Lester Wallace that entered. 


CHAPTER X 

MR. DEAN PROVIDES FOR THE FUTURE 



H, yes,” said Mr. Dean when Wallace an- 


V-/ nounced himself. “Sit down, Wallace. 
You ’re going, David? Then we may consider the 
matter settled?” 

66 If you ’re sure you really want it so.” 

66 1 ’m sure. Good-bye.” 

As David passed out, Wallace was still standing 
by the door, embarrassed, with downcast eyes. He 
had given David no greeting and seemed to desire 
none. Such evidence of his bitterness shadowed 
David’s happiness — shadowed it, but not for long. 
How could he help being happy? The sacrifice 
that he had been prepared to make was unnec- 
essary; the friend who was helping him was a 
friend whom he knew and loved and understood, 
not one who in all essentials was a remote stranger. 
The only disappointment involved in the discovery 
was his loss of the vague belief that Dr. Wallace 
had chosen generously to testify his professional ad- 
miration for an unappreciated confrere. And that 


152 


DAVID IVES 


disappointment was balanced by satisfaction in 
Mr. Dean’s declaration that he had been actuated 
by his liking for David’s father as well as for 
David himself. 

How splendid it was of Mr. Dean! And then 
David thought how thrilled and excited his mother 
would be at learning the unexpected solution of 
the mystery. He began a letter to her as soon 
as he reached his room; he had not finished it 
when Wallace stood in his doorway. 

“Hello, Lester!” David could not quite keep 
the note of surprise out of his voice. “ Come in 
and sit down.” 

Wallace closed the door quietly behind him and 
dropped into a chair. 

“ I ’ve just told Mr. Dean of my cribbing in the 
examination. I decided it was the only thing 
to do.” 

“That took sand all right!” — The old admi- 
ration shone from David’s eyes. 

“No, it didn’t. After the way you talked to 
me I felt I didn’t want to go on always knowing 
I ’d done such a crooked thing without ever trying 
to make it right. I told Mr. Dean that I should 
never have confessed if you hadn’t found me out. 
So he knows I did n’t deserve much credit.” 


PROVISION FOR THE FUTURE 153 


“Just the same, I think you do, and I guess he 
thinks so,” David said warmly. 

“ He was mighty good to me,” Wallace acknowl- 
edged. “ He asked me what I thought should be my 
status now, and I had to say that, as I had n’t hon- 
estly passed the examination, I supposed I ought 
to be put on probation again. He said he supposed 
60 , too, but he said he didn’t want the school to 
know the reason for it all; he thought that, as 
I had come to him, the story needn’t be made 
public. I said I was willing to take my medicine, 
but of course I should be grateful if I was n’t 
shown up before everybody. So he’s just going 
to let it be known that I ’m on probation again, 
after all, and that there was some mistake made in 
letting me off it; people can draw whatever con- 
clusions they please.” 

David went over and seated himself on the 
arm of Wallace’s chair; he slipped his own arm 
round Wallace’s shoulders. 

“ Lester,” he said, “ I feel somehow as if I ’d 
done a mighty mean thing to you. I guess I did 
talk like a prig.” 

“ You were right about it, anyway. And I ’m 
glad I ’ve got the thing off my chest. I don’t want 
you to think of me as crooked, Dave.” 


154 


DAVID IVES 


“I won’t! I never will! I was afraid you 
didn’t care any more what I thought of you!” 

“Well, I do!” Wallace reached up and gripped 
David’s hand. “Look here, Dave — what was all 
that about your not coming back next year?” 

“Oh, that was a mistake. I was feeling blue; 
I am coming back all right.” 

“Good enough! Don’t you think we might 
make a go of it if we roomed together, Dave?” 

“ I ’d rather room with you than any other fellow 
here, Lester. I’ve often hoped you’d suggest it. 
But Mr. Dean has asked me to live with him next 
year. He needs some one. That was what we 
were talking about this evening.” 

“ Well, I ’m sorry.” Wallace hesitated a mo- 
ment and then said, “You know, I like Mr. Dean. 
He’s making an awfully plucky fight. I never 
stopped to think about that. The way he talked 
to me this evening — he was white clear through. 
I ’ll tell you one thing, Dave.” Wallace got slowly 
out of his chair. “Nobody’s going to have any 
chance to put me on probation next year.” 

That resolve, however, as David knew, did not 
make it any easier for Wallace to face the surprise, 
the disappointment, and the inquiries of the school. 
The next day all St. Timothy’s buzzed with rumor 


PROVISION FOR THE FUTURE 155 


and excitement; the strangeness of Wallace’s case, 
off probation one day, on again the next, and his 
own reticence as to the cause, led to gossip and 
speculation. All he would say in reply to the 
questions of his best friends was that Mr. Dean 
was not to be blamed in any way for thus dis- 
qualifying him for the school nine; it was all 
his own fault, and he did not care to talk about it. 

Henshaw, captain of the nine, came to David. 

“ I ’ve got to try you now at first,” he said. “ I 
guess you’ll hold your end up all right. But 
Lester makes me tired! He was the best batter 
on the team.” 

Wallace himself tried to make amends to the 
team for failing them. He gave the members 
batting practice; he played on the scrub; he 
heartened and encouraged the players with his 
praise. And his spirit of willing service went 
far toward reestablishing him in the affections of 
the school. 

The game that year was played at St. John’s, 
and thither on the day appointed all St. Timothy’s 
journeyed — even Mr. Dean. And during the 
game Mr. Dean and Wallace sat side by side on 
the players’ bench, and Wallace reported to him 
the progress of events. He clapped his hands 


156 


DAVID IVES 


with the rest when in the second inning David 
made a hit that brought in a run — the only hit, 
to be sure, that he made during the game. It was a 
hard-fought game, in which Carter, the St. Tim- 
othy’s pitcher, had a little the better of it up to 
the ninth inning. Then, with the score four to 
three against them, St. John’s came to the bat. 
The first man struck out, but the next singled and 
the third was given his base on balls. Carter seemed 
nervous and unsteady. Henshaw came in from third 
base to encourage him; the St. John’s supporters 
had taken heart and were keeping up a distracting 
tumult along the third-base line. Wallace leaned 
forward, gripping cold hands together; Mr. Dean 
sat with an expression of patient expectancy. Hen- 
shaw returned to his position, and Carter faced the 
captain of St. John’s. The captain had determined 
to “wait them out,” but Carter recovered control, 
and after having two balls called sent two strikes 
over the plate. Then the batter hit a hard grounder 
toward Adams, the second baseman; Adams made 
a brilliant stop and tossed the ball to the short- 
stop, who was covering second, and the short-stop 
shot it to David at first just ahead of the runner. 
The game had been won in an instant; the St. 
Timothy’s crowd burst into a tremendous roar. 


PROVISION FOR THE FUTURE 157 


Mr. Dean cried, in the midst of the bellowing, 
into Wallace’s ear, “What happened?” and Wal- 
lace shouted back: 

“Double play — Adams to Starr to Dave.” 

And then Mr. Dean stood up and waved his hat 
and shouted with the rest. 

David sat with Mr. Dean in the train going 
home. Near by sat Wallace and Ruth Davenport, 
and David noticed that they talked together se- 
riously and did not seem affected by the jubilation 
and jollity that prevailed throughout the car. 

It was growing dusk when they reached St. 
Timothy’s, and lights were glowing in the windows 
of the buildings. The hungry swarm poured into 
the dining-room and rattled into their places at 
the tables; the clatter of knife and fork did not, 
however, subdue the clamor of tongues. Inex- 
haustibly they dwelt upon the afternoon’s triumph. 
David, receiving congratulations and compliments 
from every side, was fairly simmering with hap- 
piness. Then he caught sight of Wallace, sitting at 
a distant table, quiet and forgotten, and compassion 
for Wallace, who was missing all the pleasure and 
the satisfaction that might have been his, checked 
the laughter on David’s lips. After supper Wallace 
was not to be found. David walked down to the 


158 


DAVID IVES 


study; Ruth Davenport, waiting at the rectory gate, 
called him across the road to her. 

“ Lester told me the whole story in the train to- 
day, David,” she said. “You know, he’s awfully 
glad that you put him right. So am I.” 

“ Lester ’s all right,” said David. “ He was 
always all right.” 

“He’ll be all right next year, anyway,” Ruth 
answered. “ I always liked Lester, but he ’s had 
the idea that nothing mattered much so long as 
he had his own way. You know, I like him better 
because he told me!” she added irrelevantly. 

“Nobody could help liking him,” David an- 
swered. 

“ Or you, either, David.” 

And for David that little speech from Ruth put 
the crown upon a glorious day. The study bell 
rang and summoned him, but for some minutes 
after he was seated at his desk his mind was 
elsewhere than on his books; his eyes saw, not 
the printed page, but the girl in white standing 
by the gate and looking up at him with her honest, 
friendly eyes. 

It was a pleasant and happy summer vacation 
that David passed. He was gratified to find that 


PROVISION FOR THE FUTURE 159 


Ralph had grown in strength and athletic promise, 
and he complimented him with fraternal frankness 
on the fact that he had acquired more sense. His 
mother seemed to grow younger; at any rate, she 
was more cheerful than when he had last seen her; 
only occasionally did the look of sadness and of 
longing for the past come into her eyes. 

They spent a month camping in the woods on 
the shore of a lake ; Maggie went with them, though 
she protested that she did not see why they wanted 
to leave a nice, tidy little apartment and run wild 
like the Indians. She made that protest to Mrs. 
Ives and to Ralph, not to David. Somehow she 
could not feel quite so free and easy with David 
as formerly; he was not any longer just a boy. 
He had grown older and bigger, and involuntarily 
Maggie found herself treating him with a deference 
almost like that which she had been accustomed 
to observe toward his father. To be sure, before 
the summer was over a good part of that constraint 
wore off; but she never again could open her 
heart to him in full and whole-souled criticism as 
in the old days. 

For Mrs. Ives the ideal that Dr. Wallace had 
embodied was shattered. David laughed to see 
how much she begrudged the grateful thoughts that 


160 


DAVID IVES 


she had entertained toward the distinguished sur- 
geon through all those months. 

“ You know, he did n’t commit a wrong, mother, 
in not sending me back to St. Timothy’s,” David 
reminded her. “You seem almost to feel that 
he ’s done us an injury.” 

“ No, of course not, David, but it does make me 
cross to think of all the feelings I’ve had about 
him, and he never caring in the least! And all 
the time I never once thought of that good, kind, 
poor Mr. Dean!” 

From Mr. Dean came letters; he was passing 
the summer in Boston, getting instruction in a 
school for the blind. “Interesting, but not very 
encouraging,” he wrote. “If I were younger, 
perhaps I should n’t be so stupid. But I ’ve made 
some progress, and perhaps next year I shall find 
that the lack of sight is not so troublesome.” 

As David’s vacation drew to a close, his mother 
became again subdued and wistful. She talked 
hopefully, she was glad that Mr. Dean had in- 
timated his intention to prepare David for the 
career that the boy’s father had intended, but she 
could not readily resign herself to the wrench of 
another parting. 

“We live so far away,” she lamented on the 


PROVISION FOR THE FUTURE 161 


last morning. “It takes so long for letters to go 
and come. I can’t help feeling that you ’ll be less 
and less my boy, David, dear.” 

He scoffed at her, but nevertheless her words 
struck home to a tender spot. Of course he would 
never grow away from her in his heart, but he 
realized that he would be away from her more 
and more continuously as the years went on, and 
with a pang of shame he suddenly knew that the 
separation would mean more to her than to him. 
He determined then and there that he would try 
his best to make up to her through his letters 
for the loss that she must always feel, to con- 
vince her that she always had his confidence as 
well as his love. And during the next year he ful- 
filled faithfully that resolve. It was a busy year, 
for besides doing his own work he had to give 
a good deal of help to Mr. Dean; moreover, as 
a sixth-former he had responsibilities and offices 
that demanded a considerable amount of attention ; 
his athletic avocations, in which he had a gratify- 
ing success, were numerous. But the more he had 
to do the more he found to write home about and the 
gayer and cheerier was the spirit of what he wrote. 
It pleased him when in the short vacations at 
Christmas and Easter his mother said : “ I can hear 


162 DAVID IVES 

you in your letters, David. You write me such 
good letters!” 

Between Mr. Dean, dependent on David in so 
many little matters, and David, dependent on Mr. 
Dean in one large affair, the friendship grew 
stronger and closer. The boy admired the man 
for his learning, his kindness, his courtesy, and 
most of all for his courage; David wondered how 
any one stricken with such an affliction could make 
so little of it. And the man liked the boy for his 
responsiveness and for a certain stanch and honest 
quality that could not fail to impress even one 
who was blind. So the association was a happy 
one — so happy that the masters commented upon 
it among themselves and wondered how Mr. Dean 
would manage the next year; he seemed to have 
nobody in training to take David’s place. David 
himself often wondered about it, but refrained 
from asking any questions; and Mr. Dean kept his 
own counsel, kept it, indeed, until one evening two 
weeks before the end of the school year, the even- 
ing of the day on which St. Timothy’s had again 
met St. John’s upon the ball field and been victo- 
rious. The members of the nine had been cheered at 
the bonfire built in their honor, Lester Wallace, 
the captain, had made a little speech, and then 


PROVISION FOR THE FUTURE 163 


David had slipped away to go to his room. But as 
he passed the open door of Mr. Dean’s study the 
master called him. 

“A great celebration, David?” 

“Yes, pretty fine.” David came in and de- 
scribed the scene round the bonfire. 

Mr. Dean smiled. “Yes, I could hear the 
cheering. It was a great game! I wish I could 
have really seen it! And you played well at 
second base?” 

“ I managed to pull through without any errors. 
But Lester was a wonder at first — just like light- 
ning!” 

“ You and he seemed to develop some fine team 
play together. And not just on the ball field, 
either. You have shown good team play in every- 
thing this year. At Harvard next year I hope it 
will continue; there will be just as many opportun- 
ities for it.” Mr. Dean hesitated a moment and 
then said, with a shade of diffidence and embar- 
rassment, “And I think our team play has been 
pretty good, David, don’t you?” 

“Yours has been splendid, Mr. Dean.” 

“ You ’ve done your share, David. So well that 
I don’t know how I shall get on without you. In 
fact, I don’t want to get on without you.” 


164 


DAVID IVES 


David was silent for a moment in embarrass- 
ment, not knowing what to say. “Anybody else 
would be of just as much help, Mr. Dean,” he 
said finally. 

“ Nobody else could be, because I could n’t feel 
about anybody else as I do about you, David. 
Well, I can’t ask you to stay on and be a schoolboy 
indefinitely, can I?” Again Mr. Dean paused; 
he was apparently finding it hard to say something 
that he had in mind. “ I ’ve talked with the rector 
and told him that I should n’t come back next year. 
He was very kind and urged me to reconsider — 
but I told him no. I’m not so useful as I once 
was, and I can’t help being aware that in some 
ways I hamper the administration. So it’s best 
for St. Timothy’s and for me that I should with- 
draw.” 

“ The school will be awfully sorry to lose you, 
fellows and masters both,” said David. 

“ I hope they ’ll feel a friendly regret, the same 
that I feel at parting from them. But the step is 
one that I ’ve decided to take. And now the ques- 
tion is, What am I to do with myself? I have 
enough money to live comfortably. I was won- 
dering, David, if your mother wouldn’t like to 
take a house in Cambridge or Boston, since you ’re 


PROVISION FOR THE FUTURE 165 


to be at Harvard, and take me in as a boarder? I 
know it ’s asking a tremendous lot — to suggest that 
she undertake the care of a blind man ; she must n’t 
feel under any obligation to say she ’ll do it. But I 
thought perhaps she might like to be near you; 
and then there ’s your brother Ralph — we might 
arrange about his education, too. How do you 
feel about it, David? And how do you think your 
mother would feel about it?” 

“I think she’d feel it was too good to be true!” 
said David enthusiastically. “ Oh, Mr. Dean, I ’m 
sure she ’d feel it was the finest thing in the world!” 

Mr. Dean could recognize the eager ring in 
David’s voice even if he could not see the eager 
sparkle in the boy’s eyes. 

“ Of course she might n’t feel so at all,” he said, 
smiling. “ She might not want to move away from 
the place that had been her home. But if you will 
sound her on the matter, David, when next you 
write, I shall be very much obliged.” 

“When next I write! I’m going to write to her 
this minute, Mr. Dean!” 

Perhaps the master waited as eagerly as David 
for her reply. And one morning the boy came to 
him with a letter. 

“It’s just as I knew it would be, Mr. Dean,” 


166 


DAVID IVES 


he said; his eyes were shining, his face was happy. 
“ She ’s so excited she could n’t even write straight; 
her hand was all shaky. She thinks more than 
ever that you’re the finest person in the world.” 

Mr. Dean laughed joyously. “ She ’ll have 
plenty of opportunity to discover that I ’m not. 
Well, David, old man, I guess you’ve got me on 
your hands for life.” 

Indeed, Mrs. Ives had written to her boy a 
letter that was throbbing with joy and happiness. 
Yet toward the end she had admitted misgivings. 
She felt that she should be overawed by Mr. Dean. 
Her looks would not matter, of course, but she 
was afraid he might not like her voice or the way 
she read aloud, and of course he would want to have 
some one who could read pleasantly to him. David 
laughed and did not pass on those doubtful ques- 
tionings to Mr. Dean. He knew that his mother’s 
voice was all right. He laughed, too, over the end 
of the letter. “ I ’ve just told Maggie, and she 
said, ‘The dear sake! Of all the crazy notions! 
You mean to tell me you’re going to pull up 
stakes, root and branch!’ I said I thought I really 
should, and then Maggie said, ‘Very well. But 
you and a blind man — you’ll need me to look 
after the both of you!’ Isn’t it nice of her? As 


PROVISION FOR THE FUTURE 167 

for Ralph, he ’s simply wild with delight — ” and 
so on. 

Before the end of the school year the arrange- 
ments were partly made. Mr. Dean was to spend 
the summer in Boston at the school for the blind. 
About the first of September David was to bring 
his family on from the West, and then they would 
all go house-hunting together. David went round 
those last few days walking on air; examinations 
did not bother him; everything was fine; every 
one was happy. 

And then there came upon him a sense of melan- 
choly, even of sadness. He did not want so soon 
to leave this place that had been so dear to him. 
The days slipped by inexorably. And on the last 
night, in the middle of the school hymns, he was 
very near to weeping, and when he shook hands 
with the rector and said good-bye he could not 
say more than just that word. 

Outside he saw a figure in white standing be- 
hind the rectory gate. He crossed the road and 
spoke to her. 

“I hate to go, Ruth. You’ve been awfully nice 
to me here.” 

46 1 ’m sorry to think that you and Lester and 
all the rest are leaving, David. That ’s the trouble 


168 


DAVID IVES 


with being a girl in a boys’ school. Your friends 
are always leaving you — over and over and over.” 

“You make so many new ones that perhaps you 
don’t miss the old.” 

“Yes, I do, David. You’ll come up and see 
us sometimes, won’t you?” 

They bade each other good-bye, and he went 
away. Yes, he would go back to St. Timothy’s 
and see them, he said to himself quite distinctly 
— often and often. 


CHAPTER XI 


THE FAMILY MIGRATION 
E departure from the city that had been 



X their home cost David and Ralph few pangs. 
To them it meant faring forth gayly into a world 
of novelty and excitement. They assumed light- 
heartedly that the friends and places that they 
were leaving would always be friends and places 
that they would love and revisit; and on the last 
morning when they stood with their mother beside 
their father’s grave they felt that in future years 
they would often return to this shrine. Mrs. Ives 
laid a spray of roses against the headstone; her 
hand rested for a moment gently on the mound of 
earth. When she stood up the tears were flowing 
down her cheeks ; she caught and pressed the hands 
of her boys and cried, “Oh, I can’t go! I can’t 
go!” Then they stood, renewing each of them 
poignantly the sweetness and the bitterness of their 
common sorrow, loath to turn from that little, hal- 
lowed spot of ground. In the row of cedars that 
partly screened the graveled driveway below them 


170 


DAVID IVES 


birds were singing; the fragrance of pine and 
hemlock, of clipped hedges and mown lawns, of 
white phlox and candytuft and sweet alyssum were 
in the air. A squirrel suddenly sprang from a 
tree and ran away over mounds and headstones. 

“Look, mother, look at the squirrel!” cried 
Ralph. 

“ Yes, dear, yes.” Mrs. Ives dried her tears. 
Children could not be expected to be sad for very 
long. The scamper of that inconsequent bit of 
furry life, with plumy tail streaming behind, and 
the eager instant cry of the small boy closed the 
chapter of wistful meditation; Mrs. Ives turned 
away from her husband’s grave. 

In comparison with that no other parting could 
be sad. And when at last they were on the train, 
and the train was pulling out of the city, the 
mother’s spirits rose like Ralph’s; for at heart she 
was ahnost as much a child as he. 

“Look, Ralph!” she said. “There’s the acad- 
emy and the library — and the church. It’s so 
queer to think we shan’t be seeing them again in 
a few days. But just think of all that we shall see 
— the Longfellow house and Bunker Hill and 
Plymouth Rock! The last time I took a long journey 
like this was on my honeymoon!” 


THE FAMILY MIGRATION 


171 


“ I was awfully excited the first time I made 
this trip East,” observed David. 46 1 ’ve been over 
the road so often now that I know it all pretty well. 
How do you like it, Maggie?” He could not help 
feeling his dignity as the experienced traveler, but 
tlie degree of patronage that he bestowed upon the 
members of his party was not offensive, even to 
Ralph. 

Maggie, replying to his question, reached what 
was for her the acme of enthusiasm. 46 Oh, well 
enough so far,” she said. 44 1 don’t know how it ’ll 
be when it comes night.” 

Indeed, to all of them the journey was one that 
held the spirit of romance. It was an adventure 
that was altering the course and current of their 
lives, and because diey were all embarked in it 
together and it was beginning so pleasantly they 
felt happy and hopeful concerning the outcome. 
Each river that they crossed, each town that they 
left behind, marked a stage in their progress to- 
ward romance — mysterious romance in the person 
of a poor blind man who waited for them eagerly, 
who had been their friend and helper and who now 
needed their friendship and help. 

For two days they traveled; then in the middle 
of the afternoon — a warm, golden afternoon — 


172 


DAVID IVES 


their train drew into Boston. Nervousness over- 
came Mrs. Ives at this approach to the first crisis in 
her new life. 

“Do you think Mr. Dean will be at the station 
with some one to meet us?” she asked David. 

“ I think very likely. He knows we ’re arriving 
by this train.” 

“Do you think I look all right, David?” 

“You surely do. But it couldn’t make any 
difference if you didn’t.” 

“That’s true. I keep forgetting. But anyway 
I always feel that, if I look all right, I shall be 
more likely to behave in a way that will make a 
good impression. And I do want to do that. Even 
though Mr. Dean can’t see me, he is sure to form 
some impression of me.” 

“A nice shy little person that he’ll like the 
better the more he knows her — that’s the impres- 
sion he’ll have of you. Yes, your face is clean, 
and your hat is straight, and your veil too.” 

Nevertheless, it was an agitated little woman 
that, clinging to her elder son’s arm, was swept 
along the platform in the midst of the streaming 
crowd. She clutched him still more tightly when he 
cried, “I see him, mother! I see him!” 

The next moment he had Mr. Dean by the hand, 


THE FAMILY MIGRATION 


173 


and Mr. Dean’s face had lightened; even the black 
glasses that he wore seemed no longer to cloud 
it as he cried, “David, my boy! So you’re here! 
And your mother? And Ralph?” 

“Right here,” said David. “This is mother, 
Mr. Dean.” He placed her hand in the blind man’s. 

Mr. Dean, holding her hand, took off his hat 
and bowed; to Mrs. Ives the careful courtesy of 
his greeting to one whom he could not see was 
touching. “Oh, Mr. Dean,” she exclaimed, “how 
good of you to meet us!” 

Then the blind man, enclosing her hand in both 
of his, said, “You’re David’s mother; I knew that 
I should like the sound of your voice.” 

Next there was Ralph to be greeted. “ And this 
is Maggie, Mr. Dean,” said David, and Mr. Dean 
said at once: 

“You’ll find me a great care, Maggie, a great 
care, but no worse, I ’m sure, than you ’re ex- 
pecting.” 

At that Maggie giggled, quite at a loss for an 
answer and greatly delighted with a blind gentle- 
man who had such power to read her thoughts. 

“ Now, Edith,” said Mr. Dean, turning his head. 
“Where are you, Edith?” 

The attractive lady in gray whom David had 


174 


DAVID IVES 


noticed and who had stood back a little during the 
greetings came forward with a smile. 

Mr. Dean introduced her. “ Mrs. Ives,” he 
said, “this is my friend Mrs. Bradley, and she 
can tell you all the outs about me — though she 
probably won’t.” 

“ I feel as if I already knew David and his 
mother,” said Mrs. Bradley. “ Now we ’re going to 
take you to a hotel — we ’ve engaged rooms for you 

— and if you ’re not too tired you must come and 
dine with us this evening.” 

She led the way with Mrs. Ives and Ralph; 
David and Mr. Dean walked arm in arm behind. 

“ We ’ll go sight-seeing — house-hunting, I mean 

— to-morrow, David; we’ll do it leisurely. And” 

— Mr. Dean dropped his voice — “you mustn’t 
let your mother worry about hotel bills or anything 
of that kind; that’s all arranged for, you under- 
stand.” 

“But, Mr. Dean — ” began David. 

“ No, it ’s all settled. I ’ve prevailed on your 
family to come East for my benefit, and I don’t 
intend to have them do it at their expense. After 
all, David, you know I ’m to be one of the family 
now.” 

Mrs. Bradley marshaled them all into her big 


THE FAMILY MIGRATION 175 

motor car; a few minutes later she and Mr. Dean 
were leaving them at the entrance to the hotel. 

“We’ll see you then at seven this evening,” 
she said. “ Good-bye.” 

“ I know I have n’t clothes fit to wear to such a 
house,” began Mrs. Ives as soon as she was in 
her room. “And I can’t help feeling shy and 
quiet with such people; they know so much more 
than I do.” 

“ People are n’t liked for their knowledge,” 
said David. “Just for what they are.” 

“ I don’t know whether there ’s anything encour- 
aging for me in that idea or not,” said his mother. 

Nevertheless, in the excited spirit of gayety rather 
than with reluctant diffidence, she prepared to go 
out for dinner. She even tried to draw from 
Maggie, who was assisting her in her preparations, 
some more pronounced expression of satisfaction 
than had yet been forthcoming. She invited Maggie 
to subscribe to her eulogy of Mr. Dean. But 
Maggie only answered, “ I ’m glad he seems to 
realize he’ll be an awful care.” 

As Mrs. Bradley had explained that her house 
was only a short distance from the hotel, the Ives 
family set forth on foot. Their directions took 
them across the Common; in the twilight it seemed 


176 


DAVID IVES 


to them a romantic place, but it was in vain that 
Mrs. Ives, for the benefit of her sons and for the 
heightening of her own excitement and pleasure, 
strove to recall to her memory the events that gave 
it historic significance. “ I know there were great 
doings here of some sort,” she said, “hut I can’t 
remember just what they were. It’s so discour- 
aging to have my kind of a mind.” 

Anyway, it was all mysterious, romantic, and 
adventurous to be strolling in this manner among 
presumably historic scenes that were brooded over 
by lofty, venerable elms — trees novel and en- 
chanting to Western eyes. The illumination of 
the city streets shining across the open spaces was 
enlivening; the soft air was hospitable; the melting 
colors in the west communicated a glow to timid 
hearts. Entering the sphere of tranquil dignity 
that circumscribes Beacon Hill, the visitors as- 
cended to the top of Mount Vernon Street; there, 
while searching for the designated portal, Mrs. Ives 
bethought herself to convey in an undertone to 
Ralph a last injunction: “Remember, Ralph, to 
sit quiet and wait for things to be passed to you; 
don’t ask and reach as you do at home.” Ralph’s 
inarticulate reply betokened a subdued spirit. 

A white colonial door with a brass knocker pre- 


THE FAMILY MIGRATION 


177 


sented the number of which they were in search; 
they were conducted up the stairs and into the 
spacious drawing-room, where four smiling Brad- 
leys welcomed them. Mr. Bradley, a tall, bald- 
headed gentleman with a white mustache and 
wrinkled brow, looked twenty years older than 
his animated and handsome wife; more reasonably 
than she he seemed the friend and contemporary of 
Mr. Dean. To David he was at once the least 
interesting and important member of the family. 
Richard, a tall, slim youth of about David’s age, 
with a nose too short for his height and a mouth 
the corners of which seemed habitually pointed 
upward as if in search of amusement, engaged 
David’s most favorable attention. Marion Bradley 
was tall and slim also, but in no other respect 
resembled her coltish and informal brother. There 
was no hint of disproportion in any of her fea- 
tures; their very exquisiteness was severe, and 
David felt at once both chilled and perturbed by 
the young creature’s beauty. The steadfastness 
and depth of luminosity in her dark eyes were 
disconcerting to an inexperienced youth. With 
a sense of his own cowardice he turned to the 
brother as to a refuge and left Marion to consider 
and to ruminate upon the defenseless Ralph. It 


178 


DAVID IVES 


was the easier to do that because in the first few 
moments he learned that he and Richard were to 
be classmates at Harvard, and each had eager 
questions to ask. 

Mr. Dean’s voice was heard calling from above. 
Marion answered in a voice the cultivated quality 
of which chimed distractingly on David’s ear; then 
with mature serenity she left the room to go up- 
stairs to the blind man’s aid. Presently she re- 
turned, arm in arm with him. 

“My family have arrived?” asked Mr. Dean, 
and upon Mrs. Bradley’s replying that they had, 
he said, “ Then I must begin to get acquainted with 
them; Mrs. Ives, won’t you lead me over to the 
sofa and sit down with me?” 

“ If Mrs. Ives will go down to dinner with you 
instead,” said Mrs. Bradley. “ It ’s all ready.” 

It was a cheerful gathering, and Mrs. Ives soon 
felt quite at her ease with Mr. Dean and with all 
the Bradley family except Marion. She found after- 
wards that she and David had formed similar im- 
pressions of Marion. 

“ I suppose she has n’t really a better mind than 
her father or her mother, but she makes me more 
afraid of it,” said Mrs. Ives. 

“She’s too self-possessed and doesn’t feel any 


THE FAMILY MIGRATION 


179 


responsibility for entertaining her guests — just 
sits and sizes them up,” David observed. “Not 
the kind I like — not a bit like Ruth Davenport 
up at St. Timothy’s. Richard’s a brick, though, 
and so is the old man.” 

Mrs. Ives concurred in that opinion. After din- 
ner Mr. Bradley had invited her to leave the others 
and accompany him into his library where they 
might have a talk. 

“Mr. Dean has asked me to inform you more 
or less as to his affairs,” he said as he closed the 
door. “He feels it would be embarrassing for 
him to discuss them at the very start, and yet they 
must be discussed. As I ’m his man of business, 
I can put them before you. He is quite comfort- 
ably off. He wants you to rent a good large house 
in an attractive neighborhood in Cambridge, a 
house in which he will have a comfortable study, 
bedroom, and bath. He would like to have you 
take charge of all expenses and disbursements for 
the house. And he wishes me to pay to you 
monthly one thousand dollars for house and family 
expenses — including David’s expenses at college 
and Ralph’s at school.” 

“But it’s too much!” cried Mrs. Ives, quite 
aghast at the idea of having to dispose of an allow* 


180 


DAVID IVES 


ance of such magnitude. “Why, I thought he 
meant just to be a boarder! And to pay twelve 
thousand a year for board and lodging! I never 
heard of such a thing!” 

“His mind is made up, and you must let him 
have his way. He has the money to spend, and 
he is convinced that he can’t use it to any better 
purpose.” 

“But I can’t feel that it’s right! I don’t feel 
that I can accept such an arrangement.” 

Mr. Bradley set about overcoming the expected 
resistance. He dwelt upon the disappointment and 
distress that would fall upon Mr. Dean if the plan, 
which it had given him great pleasure to devise, 
were rejected; he assured Mrs. Ives that Mr. Dean’s 
heart was wrapped up in David, and that he was 
already anticipating the development of a similar 
affection for Ralph; he pointed out that Mr. Dean 
had no relatives to feel aggrieved at such a be- 
stowal of his affections. Furthermore, after the 
necessary expenses for the education of the two 
boys were deducted, the allowance that was con- 
templated would not be more than sufficient to 
surround Mr. Dean with the comforts that he de- 
sired. Mr. Bradley urged Mrs. Ives to think how 
little there was in life for the blind man and how 


THE FAMILY MIGRATION 


181 


cruel it would be to deny him his happiness; he 
drew such an affecting picture of Mr. Dean’s 
forlornness in the event of her rejecting his pro- 
posal that the soft woman could not in the end be 
anything but submissive. 

“ If you think it ’s right that I should accept 
it, Mr. Bradley — if you feel that it would really 
disappoint Mr. Dean — ” She spoke with a quiver 
of the voice. 

“Of course I think it’s right; I shouldn’t be 
trying so hard to persuade you if I didn’t,” said 
Mr. Bradley. “ Now let ’s go in and relieve the 
poor man’s suspense. I ’m afraid the length of 
our interview is making him uneasy.” 

Mr. Dean would not listen to Mrs. Ives when 
she tried to make a little speech of appreciation. 
“All settled, is it?” he said. “That’s good — no, 
no, my dear lady, you don’t know what you ’re in 
for; I assure you, you don’t; so there’s no use in 
your trying to say anything — absolutely not any- 
thing. And to-morrow perhaps you ’ll go with Mrs. 
Bradley and try to find a house. Mrs. Bradley 
knows pretty well the kind of house I have in 
mind, and if you and she can agree on one, I shall 
be satisfied.” 

Walking back across the Common to the hotel, 


182 


DAVID IVES 


Mrs. Ives breathed aloud her blessings. Pious 
longing followed them. “ If only your father could 
know! Perhaps he does. What was to become 
of us — that troubled him so in those last days! 
Oh, boys, you won’t forget him — you won’t lose 
sight of what he was and what he hoped for you! 
In this new place, where there will be nothing to 
remind you of him, you must keep him in your 
thoughts. You will, David; you will too, Ralph!” 

“Yes, mother,” each boy answered; and Mrs. 
Ives looked up at the quiet stars and told herself 
that here in this strange plaoe even as at home a 
loved and loving spirit watched over her and her 
two sons. 


CHAPTER XII 


THE NEW NEIGHBOR 

W ITHIN a week Mrs. Ives and her family 
were established in a house in one of the 
little, shaded, unexpected streets that in those days 
contributed to the charm of Cambridge. It was a 
large square house set well back in half an acre 
of ground; to one side of it lay a garden with 
rustic seats and rose trellises and flower beds bright 
at that season with asters and marigolds. There 
were elms and larches in front of the house, and 
enormous robins hopped about on the smooth lawn 
on sunny mornings and sunny afternoons. 

With the interior of the house Mrs. Ives was as 
pleased as with its surroundings — with its spa- 
cious rooms and the tiled fireplaces and the latticed 
casement windows that looked out upon the garden ; 
the house had been the property of an aged pro- 
fessor of Greek who had died a few months before, 
and it seemed to her that the austere dignity of 
the late owner continued to invest its walls. She 
felt that it was by its associations an appropriate 


184 


DAVID IVES 


abode for Mr. Dean, and that its classical atmos- 
phere must in some subtle way communicate itself 
to his senses. At any rate she saw to it that he had 
the largest and most comfortable room in, the 
house, the room into which the morning sun poured 
its liveliest beams. David led him through all the 
rooms, showed him where his books were arranged, 
helped him to explore the garden and described 
to him in detail the wall-papers, the pictures and 
the articles of furniture. Mr. Dean gratified Mrs. 
Ives by telling her that his only fear was lest 
she had sacrificed her own comfort to insure his; 
he gratified Maggie by his appreciation of her 
cooking; he gratified Mary, the waitress, by his 
pleasant recognition of her small attentions and 
kindnesses; he soon endeared himself to the entire 
household. 

Mrs. Ives was not long in finding out that Mr. 
Herbert Vance, a professor of Latin at Harvard, 
was the owner of the adjoining estate; a gate in 
the garden hedge testified to the friendly inter- 
course that had existed between him and his de- 
ceased colleague. One afternoon, while the family 
were seated on the piazza overlooking the garden 
and David was reading aloud to his mother and 
Mr. Dean, the gate in the hedge opened and a 


THE NEW NEIGHBOR 


185 


young girl advanced, shy and smiling. She was 
bareheaded; the sun struck red-gold lights in her 
hair, and when she smiled her eyes and face 
seemed as sparkling and sunny as her hair. 

“I’m Katharine Vance, Mrs. Ives,” she said. 
“Are you settled enough to be willing to receive 
callers?” 

Mrs. Ives assured her that they were beginning 
to feel lonely for the lack of them. 

Mr. Dean at once entered into the conversation. 
“When I was teaching Latin I had rather have 
seen your father’s library than that of any other 
man in America,” he said. 

“ I hope you ’ll still be interested in it,” the 
girl answered. “You must come over and let 
father talk to you about it. He’s prouder of his 
collection than of his child.” 

“ I ’m sure he can’t be,” said Mrs. Ives, with the 
polite obviousness that was her social habit. 

“Oh, yes — and he knows ever so much more 
about it. One of my school friends is Marion 
Bradley. Don’t you love her? She ’s the brightest 
girl in school. She asked me to come and see 
you as soon as you got settled. Of course I should 
have done that anyway.” 

Her friendly, observant eyes roved from one to 
another of her audience. 


186 


DAVID IVES 


“Yes, you’re quite right about Marion; / love 
her,” said Mr. Dean. “These other people don’t 
know her well enough probably to have reached 
that stage as yet. Are you a Latin scholar like 
your father?” 

“ Oh, no ; Marion always beats me. Marion al- 
ways leads the class.” 

She turned her attention to David and said she 
had heard that he came from St. Timothy’s, and 
asked him whether he knew Lawrence Bruce and 
John Murray; and David regretted now that he had 
not cultivated the acquaintance of those young 
fifth-formers. But she was not discouraged by his 
inability to claim intimacy with them — there were 
other subjects just as interesting — and she chatted 
about the incoming freshman class, of which she 
knew quite as much as David himself, and asked 
him what sports he meant to take part in and where 
he was to room and what courses he was to elect. 

“Oh, tea!” she exclaimed in rapture when the 
waitress appeared with the tray. “ We never have 
it at home.” 

She displayed a hearty appetite, and that com- 
pleted her conquest of Mrs. Ives. After she had 
returned through the garden gate, Mrs. Ives re- 
marked that they had a very attractive neigh- 


THE NEW NEIGHBOR 


187 


bor, and Mr. Dean tried without much success to 
draw from David a description of the young girl’s 
looks. 

As the days went by the gate in the hedge was 
often opened; the members of the two families 
came to be on easy-going, neighborly terms. Mr. 
Vance, a shock-headed, stoop-shouldered elderly 
widower with a scant regard for his personal ap- 
pearance that caused his daughter both distress 
and amusement, was enchanted with Mr. Dean, 
his scholarship and his appreciation. Over the 
telephone he would frequently invite him to his 
study for an hour of conversation and would then 
present himself at Mrs. Ives’s door to act as guide. 
Mrs. Ives revered her new neighbor not only for 
the vast knowledge that had qualified him for the 
post of professor at Harvard University, but even 
more for the associations of his youth, which he 
sometimes recalled while she listened in rapt won- 
der. He had studied under Lowell and Long- 
fellow, he had seen Emerson and Hawthorne, he 
had been in the audience that heard Lowell read 
the 66 Commemoration Ode,” and he had even dined 
at the Autocrat’s table. Mrs. Ives, who on her 
second day in Cambridge had audaciously plucked 
a tiny sprig of lilac from the hedge in front of 


188 


DAVID IVES 


Longfellow’s house and was preserving the treasure 
between the leaves of a dictionary, and who had 
stood that same day a worshipful pilgrim in the 
gateway in front of Lowell’s mansion, listened to 
her neighbor’s reminiscences and comments with 
mingled exultation and amazement, although she 
lost some of them owing to her habit of incredu- 
lously congratulating herself in the midst of his 
talk upon her extraordinary privilege. 

Within a few days the college had opened and 
David had taken up his quarters in one of the 
dormitories. But he came home daily and either 
walked with Mr. Dean or read to him; after 
Christmas this daily visit acquired greater impor- 
tance for his mother and perhaps also for the blind 
man. For Ralph had now gone to St. Timothy’s, 
his entrance there having been delayed, and much 
of the time the house seemed subdued and perhaps 
a little sad. David’s visits were cheerful episodes, 
and Katharine Vance contributed to her neighbors’ 
happiness. She made Mr. Dean her especial care 
and came in to see him two or three times a 
week; moreover, she got some of her friends to 
call and succeeded in imbuing them with the 
feeling that it might be a rather nice, pleasant 
charity occasionally to sacrifice themselves to the 


THE NEW NEIGHBOR 


189 


entertainment of the blind man. So, even with 
David in college and Ralph at St. Timothy’s, 
Mr. Dean was seldom lonely; and Mrs. Ives grad- 
ually found her place in the community and was 
happy in her tranquil, comfortable life. Only 
at times her mind took her back to the house 
that had been the scene of her greatest happiness 
and her deepest sorrow, and the tears would sud- 
denly fill her eyes. She wondered whether the 
little cemetery lot was being well cared for; at those 
times she longed desperately to visit it and lay 
flowers on the grave. 

In college David acquired the reputation of 
being a good all-round man of no special bril- 
liancy. He always held a high rank in scholarship ; 
he took part in athletics, though he never made a 
varsity team; he sang in the glee club; he was 
elected an editor of one of the college papers; 
and by reason of all his activities and the earnest- 
ness and enthusiasm with which he entered into 
them he became one of the most widely known 
and popular members of his class. He took no 
such conspicuous place, however, as that which his 
friend from St. Timothy’s, Lester Wallace, seized 
almost immediately and held throughout the college 
course. Lester captained the victorious freshman 


190 


DAVID IVES 


football team and was elected president of the 
freshman class; he played on the freshman base- 
ball nine, and in subsequent years he won a place 
on both the varsity eleven and the varsity nine. 
Even if he had not been endowed with a brilliant 
talent for athletics, he could have danced and sung 
his way into popularity; there was no livelier hand 
at the piano than his, no more engaging voice when 
upraised in song, no foot more clever at the clog, 
the double shuffle, the breakdown, or the more 
intricate steps of the accomplished buck-and-wing 
performer. 

David shared the general admiration for his 
gifted friend, even though he did not share Lester’s 
point of view on many subjects. Throughout his 
college course Lester so arranged matters that never 
on any day was he troubled with a lecture or a 
recitation after half-past two o’clock. 

“ Get the dirty work of the day over with as 
soon as you can and then enjoy yourself ; that ’s 
my motto,” he declared; and he expostulated with 
David for choosing courses that occasionally re- 
quired laboratory work through long afternoons. 

“But if you’re going to study medicine, you 
ought to have a certain amount of laboratory 
knowledge to begin with,” David replied. 


THE NEW NEIGHBOR 


191 


“ Oh, you can get it when the time comes,” 
Lester responded easily. “These four years are 
the best years of your life, my boy; it’s a crime to 
waste any part of them — particularly the after- 
noons and evenings.” 

With that philosophy, with his attractive per- 
sonality, and with the prestige of spectacular 
achievement on the athletic field, Lester was sure 
to have a gay and ardent following. Among those 
who attached themselves to him with an almost 
passionate devotion was Richard Bradley. Him- 
self a youth of lively and humorous disposition, 
not of a studious turn of mind, an admirer of 
athletes rather than athletic, he found in Lester 
his beau ideal; and when in their sophomore 
year Lester consented to room with him, Richard 
felt a jubilant happiness similar to that, perhaps, 
which the young swain who has received a favor- 
able reply from his sweetheart experiences. Rich- 
ard’s family, with the possible exception of Marion, 
who was non-committal, were less happy about 
the arrangement. 

“I am afraid you regard your college course 
merely as a social experience,” said Mr. Bradley 
when Richard told him that he was to room the 
next year with the most popular man in the class, 


192 


DAVID IVES 


already president of it and likely to be first mar- 
shal also. “ It would do you more good to room 
with the best scholar than with the best athlete.” 

“Just wait till you know him,” pleaded Richard. 

One Sunday he brought Lester in to lunch with 
the family and was satisfied with the result. Even 
his father had fallen a victim to Lester’s charm. 
As for the young ladies of Boston and Cambridge 
whom Lester met at the numerous parties that he 
graced with his presence, half of them sang his 
praises and half of them denounced him as spoiled, 
conceited, or insincere. 

Katharine Vance told David that she did not 
like Lester Wallace because he was too much a 
man of the world. 

David had come to be on terms of intimacy 
with all the Bradley family except Marion, and 
possibly he was piqued by her consistent formality. 
He spent his summer vacations, as it were, at the 
Bradley’s door; on their estate at Buzzard’s Bay 
there was a small house that they called the cot- 
tage and that they had always rented to Mr. Dean. 
Now they enlarged it and rented it to the “ Dean- 
Iveses,” as they conveniently termed the family. 
David and Richard played tennis and golf and 
sailed, and went for a dip in the sea two or three 


THE NEW NEIGHBOR 


193 


times a day; and Ralph grew old enough to 
be of some use and companionship. Usually 
the Bradley’s big house was filled with Richard’s 
friends; the Bradleys were hospitable people. 
Only Marion was cool to David; and it wounded 
him, because he could not help admiring her. She 
spoke French and read Italian and commanded at 
least a jargon about pictures and sculptures and 
had a solid grounding in music. 

66 No wonder,” thought David ruefully on many 
an occasion when ignorance kept him dumb, “no 
wonder that she despises me!” 

He acknowledged to himself that it did seem 
as if school and college had done little for him, 
so far as qualifying him to make a brilliant ap- 
pearance in society was concerned. Biology was 
not a parlor subject; chemistry made the hands 
unattractive; physics was a thing in which no 
girl was ever interested. Now Lester Wallace — 
there was a fellow who could prattle like a man 
of parts! He knew how to talk to such a girl 
as Marion. 

Nevertheless Lester was frank in commenting 
upon her to David. “She’s a nice girl, but aw- 
fully high-brow and intense. It’s a great strain 
for one who has just what you might call a quick 
intelligence.” 


194 


DAVID IVES 


David laughed. “Think what it would be if 
you had a slow one — like mine,” he said. 

After all, David’s chief interests were not social 
or athletic even in vacation time; every day for 
six weeks each summer he went to the school of 
marine biology at Woods Hole, and the talks that 
he and Mr. Dean had over algae and jellyfish and 
sponges and crustaceans were more interesting to 
him than the porch conversations of his friends, in 
which he was mainly a listener. Mr. Dean had been 
a collector of shells and an amateur student of 
biology and stimulated him in his research. 

“You’ll find that these studies that you’re fol- 
lowing now will help you when you get into the 
medical school,” said Mr. Dean. “ It is n’t only 
the scientific knowledge you ’re acquiring that will 
be valuable to you, it ’s the accustoming yourself 
to scientific methods.” 

Lester Wallace and Richard Bradley, however, 
professed inability to comprehend David’s actions. 
“ In some ways, Dave, you ’re almost human,” 
Lester said to him. “ But this choosing to spend 
your vacation in study — and such a study! Scul- 
pins and jellyfish and other slimy things!” 

“You’ll get queer like some of those fishes 
you’re interested in ? ” said Richard. “They say 


THE NEW NEIGHBOR 


195 


that people who make a study of birds always 
come to look like birds, and it ’s much more 
dangerous to make a study of fishes.” 

“ He ’s getting goggle-eyed already,” asserted 
Lester. 

66 Yes, and his chin has begun to fall away, and 
his mouth sags at the corners,” remarked Richard. 
“A fish is an awfully sad-looking animal, Dave.” 

44 1 think they ’re more interesting than porch 
lizards and parlor snakes,” said David. 

The significance of the remark was such that 
it provoked a scuffle, at the end of which David 
was lying prone upon the sand of the beach and 
Lester and Richard were sitting triumphantly on 
his back. 


CHAPTER XIII 


HERO WORSHIP 

D URING his college course David made a num- 
ber of visits to his old school. He was in- 
terested in observing Ralph’s progress and hearing 
his experiences and in reviving his own memories, 
but he enjoyed the visits most for the opportu- 
nity they gave him to be again with Ruth Daven- 
port. He learned from Ralph that several of the 
unmarried masters were attentive to her, and the in- 
formation roused his jealousy and resentment. Her 
dealings with two or three of those creatures in his 
presence as she gave them tea filled him with 
gloom; he feared she had learned to flirt. But 
afterwards, when she treated him with a special 
consideration and interest, he knew that she really 
was not a flirt at all, but just what she had always 
been, a kind, sweet-tempered, honest girl. It did 
not excite his jealousy to have her ask him about 
Lester, not even when she said that she thought Les- 
ter was the most attractive person who had ever 
passed through the school. David knew that she had 


HERO WORSHIP 


197 


always thought that, and, as it was true and Lester 
was his friend, it was right that she should think it. 

64 Why doesn’t he come up to see us oftener, 
David?” she asked. “He’s too busy with his 
new friends, I suppose.” 

No, it wasn’t that, David was sure; but of 
course Lester was very busy, with athletics and 
college organizations and — and — 

“Studies, too,” said Ruth. “Poor Lester! But 
you must tell him, David, that if he will only come 
up and see us I will promise not to lecture him 
the way I used to do. How angry I once made 
him! Do you still help him with his lessons?” 

David assured her that he did not and that 
Lester was getting on very well. When he returned 
to Cambridge from that visit, he told Lester of 
Ruth’s interest and of the way some of the masters 
like young Blatch and the middle-aged Manners 
seemed to be pursuing her. Lester scowled and 
said that she was too good for any masters at St. 
Timothy’s. 

“ She ’s grown prettier,” said David. 

“ It ’s too bad a girl like that should be stuck 
up there in the country by herself — no society 
but that of kids and school-teachers. I guess I ’ll 
have to go and see her some Sunday.” 


198 


DAVID IVES 


The popular youth performed this missionary 
act more than once. He returned with impressions 
of the old school that were vaguely displeasing 
to David. The rector and the masters were “nar- 
row” and “provincial,” and the boys were an 
uncouth lot of young ruffians. As for Ruth, how- 
ever, she met the requirements even of Lester’s 
exacting taste. There wasn’t a better-looking or 
better-dressed girl in Boston, and he supposed she 
didn’t spend a tenth of what most of the Boston 
girls spent on clothes. Really it would be a shame 
if young Blatch or that pompous fool, Manners, 
should be successful in his grossly obvious maneu- 
vers and imprison her for life in that dull little 
community. A girl with her looks and social gifts 
was qualified to take a prominent place anywhere. 
Some old St. Timothy’s boy ought to rescue her 
from the dismal fate that threatened. 

“ Of course she ’s not very old yet,” David sug- 
gested. 

Lester could not see anything reassuring in that 
fact. Just because she was so young and inex- 
perienced, had seen so little of the world outside, 
she was all the more in danger of becoming the 
prey of a greenhorn like Blatch or a fossil like 
Manners. 


HERO WORSHIP 


199 


Convincing as was Lester’s eloquence upon the 
subject, the emotion that inspired it seemed tran- 
sitory; his visits to St. Timothy’s continued to be 
infrequent, and as time passed without Ruth’s mak- 
ing the sacrifice that he dreaded, his agitation on 
that score subsided. Moreover, he had, as he often 
said, other things to think about than girls. The 
senior year found him with popularity undimin- 
ished, yet disappointed because an honor on which 
for two years he had counted had been denied him. 
Although he was regarded as the most brilliant 
player on the varsity football team, he had not 
been elected captain. He talked about it freely 
with David, who felt that the prize should have 
been awarded to him. 

“ They think I ’m not steady enough to be cap- 
tain,” said Lester. “I’m not saying Farrar isn’t 
a better man for the job, but I don’t see why they 
think I ’m unsteady. I ’ve never yet in any big 
game lost my head or my nerve.” 

66 It is n’t that they think you ’re unsteady,” 
David explained, “but that they have an idea 
you’re too temperamental; it’s a part of being 
brilliant. They think that, if you had the respon- 
sibility of being captain, your own playing would 
suffer. In my opinion they ’re wrong, but it is n’t 
anything against you that there is that feeling.” 


200 


DAVID IVES 


“Oh, it’s all right; I don’t want you to think 
I’m kicking. And it may very well be that I 
wouldn’t show at my best under responsibility, 
though I hate to think so.” 

David himself was captain of his class eleven; 
he was not regarded as too temperamental. Nearly 
every day after he had put his team through their 
drill he would watch the last few minutes of the 
varsity eleven’s practice; he would follow Lester’s 
work with special interest. Lester was a picturesque 
player; he scorned the protection of a head guard, 
and his fair hair shone even in the feeble Novem- 
ber light and made him recognizable for specta- 
tors who could not identify helmeted players. He 
was the fleetest of all the backs; there was no one 
who was his peer for running in a broken field; 
again and again during the practice games the 
bleachers resounded with applause for the bare- 
headed figure, the personification of indomitable 
energy and ingenious skill, who wove and forced 
his way for twenty or thirty yards through furious 
attacking foes. To the uncritical observer his 
achievements always seemed more single-handed 
than they were; possibly in choosing to do without 
the conventional headgear, and thus render himself 
more conspicuous, he was aware that he must pro- 


HERO WORSHIP 


201 


duce that effect. He often talked rather patroniz- 
ingly about people who had no sense of dramatic 
values. 

David, in his brief daily glimpses of his friend’s 
showy performances, felt occasional stings of envy 
through his thrills of admiration. What a splen- 
did thing to achieve, what an exploit forever after 
to look back upon — making the varsity team! 
Since his first day as a freshman he had hoped 
that some time he might accomplish it, and now 
here he was a senior and not even a substitute — 
not even a substitute on the second eleven! 

It hurt him to find that Lester was reckoning 
his success in athletics as a business asset on which 
to realize later. 

“You’ve given up all idea of studying med- 
icine?” David asked. 

“ Yes. I ’m tired of study and examinations. I 
want to get to work and make a pile of money. 
I feel I can do it, too, and I don’t feel I could 
ever do it being a doctor. Besides, as I said, a 
varsity football record that’s really good will give 
a man a great start in business, and I might as 
well take advantage of it. A fellow with such a 
record can begin in Boston or New York, and 
everybody on State Street or Wall Street knows 


202 


DAVID IVES 


about him and is glad to see him. It would be 
foolish not to make the most of an opportunity.” 

David recognized the force of the argument 
and at the same time felt that there was some- 
thing distasteful in Lester’s readiness to lay hold 
of it. He wondered why it was distasteful, and 
could not answer, except that perhaps it repre- 
sented a too egotistical and self-centered point of 
view, one that was concerned with Lester’s future 
fortunes rather than with the success of the team. 

David’s own football performance was after all 
successful enough to satisfy his modest soul. His 
team won the class championship, defeating first 
the juniors and then the freshmen; David’s part 
in the victories was conspicuous. He played at 
left end and was the strongest player both in attack 
and in defense; when the deciding game had been 
won his team mates bore him from the field in 
triumph, and the senior class, assembling in front 
of the locker building, made his name the climax 
of their cheers. That was gratifying enough to 
David; perhaps it brought as much pleasure to 
the blind man and the girl who lingered beyond 
the edge of the crowd. David had caught a glimpse 
of them among the spectators when he had chased 
a ball that was kicked out of bounds; he had felt 


HERO WORSHIP 


203 


at the moment a fresh flow of affection for Mr. 
Dean, a sudden warm sense of Katharine Vance’s 
charm. He carried the ball out and threw him- 
self with new enthusiasm into the next play. The 
interest that had caused those two to come and 
see this game — it must be well repaid ! 

After he had dressed he hurried home — not 
to his college room, but to his mother’s house. 
He found Katharine and Mr. Dean recounting his 
achievements to a proud woman whose hands 
trembled so that she could hardly make tea. 

64 David,” she said, 66 1 could n’t come and see 
you play; I ’m always so frightened for fear you ’ll 
get hurt. They tell me you did splendidly.” 

“The team did,” said David. “Weren’t you 
people nice to come down!” 

“ Katharine is an excellent interpreter,” re- 
marked Mr. Dean. “I never had a better pair 
of eyes. As for my ears, they were quite grat- 
ified by what they heard at the end. It was a 
pity, Mrs. Ives, that you missed that feature of 
the occasion.” 

“Yes,” said David, pleased and embarrassed. 
“Wasn’t it silly of the crowd?” 

“ If it was, then, Mr. Dean and I were silly, 
too,” said Katharine. “We hoped you heard us, 


204 


DAVID IVES 


we came out so strong on 6 1-i-i-ives!’ at the end. 
I think that Mrs. Ives ought to know just how it 
sounded, don’t you, Mr. Dean?” 

“Quit it!” cried David; but Mr. Dean chuckled 
and said: 

“ Quite right, Katharine; you lead the cheering, 
and I ’ll come in.” 

“One, two, three,” said Katharine; and she and 
Mr. Dean, standing in the middle of the room, 
shouted : 

“Rah, rah, rah; rah, rah, rah; rah, rah, rah; 
I-i-ives!” 

While the echoes died, remote sounds betrayed 
Maggie’s efforts to suppress her mirth. 

“Dear me, I do wish I’d been there!” said 
Mrs. Ives. “It makes me more proud of you 
than ever, David.” 

“ Katharine ’s a tease,” replied David. “ But 
I should n’t have thought it of Mr. Dean.” 

After Katharine had gone, Mr. Dean asked 
David to describe the whole game to him. “ Of 
course,” said the blind man, “ Katharine helped 
me to follow it, but she didn’t know the players, 
and so we missed some tilings. That first touch- 
down, just how was it made?” 

So David described die game in detail and 


HERO WORSHIP 


205 


afterwards asked Mr. Dean whether it had been 
on his initiative or on Katharine’s that he had gone. 

46 Oh, Katharine suggested it. I should n’t have 
imposed myself on her. But she came over here 
for me and fairly dragged me out of the house; 
said she knew I wanted to go to David’s game. 
She ’s a nice girl, David.” 

“ She ’s about as good as they come.” 

“Was she looking especially pretty to-day, 
David?” 

“ Why, I don’t know. Perhaps. What do you 
say, mother?” 

“Yes, I think she was. She had on her new 
winter hat, and it was very becoming.” 

“ What made you ask that question, Mr. Dean?” 

“ I wondered if it was n’t the fact. Sometimes 
I seem to feel people’s looks. Perhaps it’s the 
happiness in their voices — if it ’s greater than 
usual; perhaps it’s something too subtle to ex- 
press. I did have the feeling that Katharine was 
looking her prettiest to-day. You’d call her a 
pretty girl, wouldn’t you?” 

“ In some ways; nice-looking; attractive,” quali- 
fied the scrupulous David. 

“ She ’s very pretty, she ’s lovely,” declared 
Mrs. Ives, impatient with her son for his reserva- 


206 DAVID IVES 

tions. 46 1 don’t know where you ’ll see a prettier 
girl!” 

“ Well, there ’s Ruth Davenport and Marion 
Bradley,” David suggested. “Katharine may be 
just as attractive, but I don’t know that you would 
call her as pretty. By the way, Lester has invited 
Ruth to come down to the Yale game, and he’s 
asked me to look after her for him. I thought 
it might be a good idea, mother, if you invited 
her to stay here that night and had a little tea 
for her after the game.” 

“Why, of course,” said Mrs. Ives; and Mr. 
Dean expressed his pleasure. 

Ruth wrote that she was “thrilled” to accept 
the invitation. And on the morning of the game, 
when David met her at the station, he thought that 
he had never seen any one so happy. Indeed, for a 
long time afterwards in musing moments the mem- 
ory of her as she had appeared that day when he 
first caught sight of her would arise before him 
— a slender figure in a black pony coat with a 
white fur round her neck and a black velvet hat 
on her head; she waved her white muff at him 
while a greeting fairly glowed from her pink 
cheeks and bright eyes and laughing lips. 

“Lester was sorry that he couldn’t meet you 


HERO WORSHIP 


207 


himself,” David said. “But the morning of the 
game they have to keep quiet and avoid excite- 
ment.” 

“Gracious! Would I be excitement?” 

David reddened under Ruth’s merry glance. If 
Lester knew, would n’t he want to kick him ! 

“ I ’m very well satisfied with the arrangement,” 
Ruth said. “I can see Lester play, and I can 
sit and talk with you. It will all be such fun. 
I ’ve never seen a Harvard -Yale game. How nice 
of your mother to ask me down for it! And what 
luck to have such a heavenly day! Oh, David, 
I know I ’m going to have the best time of my 
whole life!” 

“If we lick Yale,” said David. 

“I suppose that will be necessary. But I feel 
we shall; I feel that nothing will happen to spoil 
the good time that I ’m going to have.” 

On the way to Cambridge David tried to tell 
her about Lester — his brilliancy, his popularity, 
his magnificent success. But she turned him from 
that theme and began putting questions about his 
own accomplishments. She drew from him the 
admission that he had captained his class eleven 
and that it had won the championship, that he 
had been taken into a certain club, that he stood 


208 


DAVID IVES 


a chance of getting a degree magna cum laude; 
afterwards David’s cheeks burned when he thought 
it all over; he must have appeared a veritable 
monster of egotism. She conducted her researches 
so skillfully that the quivering subject was hardly 
aware of them even while reluctantly yielding up 
its riches. David wondered how, when he had been 
making this egregious display of himself, he could 
possibly have imagined that he was having a good 
time! 

One thing he was sure of: if she enjoyed the 
day as much as she appeared to do, her enjoyment 
was not wholly at his expense. 

“ It’s all such an adventure for me!” she con- 
fided to him. “ I love to get away from the school 
now and then and meet new people and see old 
friends. Am I going to see Mr. Dean, David?” 

64 Of course you are. He’s looking forward 
to it. He told me to bring you out to the house 
just as quick as I could. We ’re to have an early 
lunch and then start for the game. Afterwards 
mother has asked a few people in for tea, and 
Lester’s coming.” 

44 Oh, what fun!” caroled Ruth. “And what a 
heavenly day! I hope every one will have a 
good time to-day!” 


HERO WORSHIP 


209 


“Every one except Yale,” said David, and she 
laughed. 

“ Can’t you sometimes enjoy a game even though 
you’re beaten, David?” 

“ I can,” he replied. “ But Yale can’t.” 

“My, but you’re prejudiced!” 

He admitted that perhaps he was. “ Of course 
Yale’s a great place, and we should hate to have 
to get on without her. I dare say the Yale men 
feel the same way about Harvard. And if it 
weren’t for Yale, we shouldn’t be having this day, 
one of the finest days in the whole year.” 

“Isn’t it!” cried Ruth. “Three cheers for 
Yale!” 

In David’s eyes she radiated charm and hap- 
piness and good will, and her least utterance 
sounded musical to his ears. He was sure that 
she must inevitably win the heart of every man 
and woman that she met. There was no question 
but that she won his mother’s. At luncheon Mrs. 
Ives beamed over the good report that Ruth brought 
about Ralph. He was such a nice boy; every one 
at St. Timothy’s liked him. Mr. Dean questioned 
her eagerly about the masters and the life at the 
school. She gave him lively answers filled with 
gay anecdotes. 


210 


DAVID IVES 


After luncheon, when she and David were start- 
ing for the game, she said to Mr. Dean, “ I wish 
you were coming too.” 

“ I go only to David’s games now,” Mr. Dean 
answered with a smile. Then, as she put her 
hand into his, he said: “It’s good to hear your 
voice again, my dear. I should like to see how 
the little girl has grown.” 

David saw Ruth’s eyes suddenly grow moist 
and bright. “ I ’m just the same, Mr. Dean,” she 
replied, “though I hope my hair is generally 
tidier than it used to be.” 

She was silent for a while after leaving the 
house; David liked her silence and the emotion 
that it signified. Wasn’t it her quick and soft 
compassion that had always made big boys as 
well as little open-hearted with Ruth? 

Soon they were in the full tide of the stream 
that bubbled and rustled and flashed and rippled 
on its flow to Soldiers’ Field. The sun was shining; 
blue flags and crimson were waving; a brass band 
somewhere ahead was braying; gray-headed grad- 
uates, fuzzy-chinned freshmen, mothers, grand- 
mothers, sisters, and sweethearts, all were bustling 
and trudging, gay and eager; and the ceaseless 
cries of ticket speculators and venders of souvenirs, 


HERO WORSHIP 


211 


banners, and toy balloons made the very air alive 
with excitement. In all the throng no one’s face 
was brighter, happier, more expectant than Ruth’s. 
And no one’s face was prettier, thought David. 

She was too much excited to talk, except in 
exclamations, too much excited after they took their 
seats in the Stadium and looked down upon the 
empty field and across at the bank of spectators 
who were cheering for Yale and waving blue flags. 
All the preliminary cheering and singing, the 
figures of the bareheaded cheer leaders leaping 
about in front of the sections, brandishing mega- 
phones and making every movement of arm and 
leg and body in a kind of fanatical, frenzied unison, 
one with another — all before a single athlete had 
put in an appearance — did not strike either Ruth 
or David as ridiculous. David responded loyally 
to every behest of the cheer leader immediately 
confronting him and in the intervals pointed out 
the celebrities to Ruth. “That fellow who leads 
our section is Henderson, captain of the crew; 
that’s Colby, captain of the nine, next to him; 
there ’s Burke, leader of the glee club — ” and so 
on. Ruth looked at each one with just a moment of 
interest in the great man and then renewed her 
bright, wandering, excited gaze over the whole 
lively, sparkling scene. 


212 


DAVID IVES 


There was a more exuberant outbreak on the 
Yale side, and the Yale eleven, attended by in- 
numerable substitutes, came rushing on the field 
in a grim and violent manner. Immediately there 
followed an exuberant outbreak on the Harvard 
side, and the Harvard eleven, attended by innum- 
erable substitutes, came rushing on the field in a 
grim and violent manner. They crouched and 
charged, then crouched and charged again, while 
rampant individuals of apparently uncontrollable 
strength and energy booted footballs to enormous 
heights and for unbelievable distances. 

“There’s Lester!” cried Ruth. “ How nice that 
he’s not wearing a head guard, for now I can 
always pick him out. But I do hope his head 
won’t get hurt.” 

“Lester never gets hurt,” David assured her. 

Not only in the eyes of Ruth and David did 
Lester shine preeminent that afternoon. He flashed 
out of scrimmages, carrying the ball; he made long 
end runs, carrying the ball; he ran the ball back 
on kicks, dodging and squirming through a broken 
field; he made the first touchdown of the game, 
and a few minutes later the second. David 
shouted himself hoarse over Lester’s exploits, and 
Ruth, though she did not join in the cheering, 


HERO WORSHIP 


213 


had a proud and happy look in her eyes. He 
was her hero; and perhaps even while he per- 
formed these wonderful feats he thought of her. 

Toward the end of the second half he was taken 
out of the game; as he left the field all the 
spectators whose sympathies were with Harvard 
stood up and cheered him. 

“Why did he leave?” asked Ruth. “He’s not 
hurt, is he?” 

“No, but the game’s won, and the coaches are 
sending Wilcox in to get his 4 H.’ Wilcox has 
been a substitute for three years, and this is his 
last chance.” 

Ruth understood perfectly. She thought it prob- 
able that Lester had intimated to the coaches that 
it would be a nice thing to do. Certainly it was 
just the sort of thoughtful, generous act that she 
should expect of Lester. 

Now that Lester was no longer playing, Ruth 
felt that the game had lost in interest. But it was 
soon over, and then Harvard undergraduates and 
graduates swarmed out on the field and proceeded 
to engage in the peculiar collegiate folk-dancing 
that symbolizes and celebrates victory. Behind 
the blaring brass band, which marched and coun- 
termarched, ranks of young men zigzagged tumult- 


214 


DAVID IVES 


uously, passing at last, one after another in swift 
succession, under the crossbar of the goal while 
over it passed the equally swift procession of their 
hats — to be recovered or not, as the case might 
be, by the rightful owners. In this flinging away 
of cherished headgear there seemed to the ob- 
server an almost religious note of mad and joyous 
sacrifice, a note accented by the mystical dusk 
of the November afternoon that caused a lighted 
match to flare like an altar fire, and the end of a 
cigar to glow like a censer. 

Ruth found the spectacle first ludicrous and then 
ridiculously emotional; she turned to David and 
saw what she interpreted as pious yearning in his 
eyes. 

“David,” she said, giving him a little nudge, 
“you go down and throw your hat over the goal 
for me. I ’ll wait here for you.” 

“Would you mind? I’ll be right back.” 

David was off instantly. Ruth watched him go 
springing down the tiers of seats, saw him sprint 
out on the field and get sucked into the mazes 
of the serpentining throng. She lost sight of him 
then and, raising her eyes, looked across the field 
to the sections that the Yale men and their friends 
occupied. A good many of them were stoically 


HERO WORSHIP 


215 


waiting to see the end of the demonstrations; they 
no longer waved their flags or raised their voices 
in fruitless cheers, but preserved a certain passive 
constancy in defeat that touched Ruth’s heart. 
“You poor things!” she thought. “It is hard, 
isn’t it? I’m glad I’m not feeling as you are.” 

She was still contemplating them with this phar- 
isaic yet not uncharitable thought when David 
rejoined her. 

“Goodness!” she said. “Is that your hat, 
David?” 

“Yes,” he admitted, fingering the battered ruin 
gingerly. “ It got stepped on.” 

“ A perfectly good hat a moment ago,” said 
Ruth. “Aren’t men silly!” 

“ It ’s all in a good cause,” returned David with 
conviction. 

In Mrs. Ives’s drawing-room an eager party as- 
sembled to greet the conquering hero. Katharine 
Vance sat behind the tea-table; Marion Bradley 
and half a dozen other young ladies, all decked 
out befittingly either with crimson chrysanthemums 
or American-beauty roses, chatted and watched 
the door through which Lester must enter. They 
were interested, too, in Ruth; from one to another 
had passed the word that she was the girl whom 


216 


DAVID IVES 


Lester had himself invited ! Possibly it made their 
scrutiny of her a little critical, but she was so 
full of joyous expectancy that she was not aware 
of it. Besides, there were other old friends from 
St. Timothy’s coming up to speak to her, and Mr. 
Dean sat where he could hear her voice and so 
received much of her attention. 

At last there was the entrance for which they 
all were waiting. It was not at all in the manner 
of the conquering hero that Lester Wallace pre- 
sented himself, but rather as a laughing youth 
disposed to forestall embarrassing compliments. 
He shook hands with every one, blushed becom- 
ingly, and said little. Only Marion Bradley 
seemed to watch him with a smile that might be 
interpreted as perhaps mildly disparaging, gently 
mocking. David observed it and thought with 
indignation, “ Pity Marion can’t show a little 
enthusiasm for once!” 

Perhaps Lester was not aware of any coolness; 
surely the interest shown by the other young 
ladies was gratifying enough. But after he had 
exchanged a few words with each of them, it 
was to Ruth that he turned and with Ruth that he 
talked, even though he intentionally allowed the 
magic of his smile and the glamour of his glance 


HERO WORSHIP 


217 


to shine for other admiring eyes. He could not stop 
long; that evening the team were to dine together 
and celebrate their victory. But he would be 
round the next day with a motor car — if Ruth 
would go to drive with him? 

Katharine Vance had been watching David per- 
haps no less than she had been observing Lester. 
She had noticed that his eyes were turned most of 
the time toward Ruth. 

Later, when the guests had departed, David 
walked with Katharine to the gate. 

“Lester doesn’t seem a bit swelled up over it 
all does he?” he said. “ How fine it must be to be 
in his shoes!” 

“ I don’t care for so much hero worship,” Kath- 
arine replied. “ It makes me sort of mad. After 
all, David, it takes just as fine qualities to be the 
hero of a scrub team as of the varsity.” 


CHAPTER XIV 


ANTI-CLIMAX 



WEEK after the game David stopped one 


afternoon at Lester’s room and found him in 


a discontented mood. 

“ I can’t stand anti-climax,” Lester said. “ And 
now that the game is over, everything is by way 
of being anti-climax for me. And a fellow can’t 
just take things comfortably; he has to do a lot of 
petty, sordid studying. While I was playing foot- 
ball I fell behind in most of my courses; now I 
have all that work to make up. If my father would 
give his consent, I ’d leave college and go into 
business.” 

“That would be a foolish thing to do before 
you ’ve got your degree.” 

“ I ’ve got out of college all there is in it for 
me. It seems a waste of time to stay on for just 
a piece of parchment. I ’m beginning to feel 
cramped. I need space to expand in.” Standing 
in front of the fireplace, Lester stretched and 
swelled his big frame, doubled his fists and flung 


ANTI-CLIMAX 


219 


his arms out from the shoulders. 66 1 want to get 
into the game — the big game — quick. School- 
boy life — I ’ve had enough. I ’m no student.” 

“ You don’t need to tell me that. Still the degree 
counts for something.” 

“ Mighty little in the business world. Six good 
months wasted, hanging on here!” 

“What should you do if you cut loose now?” 

“ I should get a job in a bond house. I might 
go to New York. I mean to get into the promotion 
of big things — big corporation business. A fel- 
low that finances street railways and industrial 
plants, controls banks and makes towns grow — a 
builder; that’s what I mean to be.” 

“ That ’s all right ; and now you ’re laying your 
foundation. Building is slow work. You mustn’t 
be impatient.” 

“ I ’m not impatient of anything but time 
wasted!” cried Lester. 

“Well, it won’t do for you to pull up stakes 
and clear out, even if your father does consent 
to anything so foolish,” said David crisply. “ We ’re 
going to run you for first marshal, and you’ve 
got to stay and get elected.” 

Whether David realized it or not, he could not 
have brought forward an argument that would have 


220 


DAVID IVES 


been more effective with Lester. To be elected 
first marshal was to win the highest non-scholastic 
honor attainable in the university. Lester showed 
his interest at once. 

“Oh, there’s no chance. Farrar will get that. 
Captain of the football team. It’s a sure thing 
for him.” 

“There’s quite a feeling that on your record 
you deserved the captaincy and that the best thing 
tlie class can do is to make it up to you by electing 
you first marshal. That’s a thing that it’s worth 
staying in college for, even if the degree isn’t.” 

“ Oh, if there were a chance of my getting it, 
sure. But I guess this is just a case where you ’re 
blinded by friendship, old man.” 

“Farrar’s got his supporters, of course, and so 
has Jim Colby got his. But most of the fellows 
I see think that you’re the man; your work on 
the football and baseball teams and the fact that 
you ’re generally popular make you the most 
likely candidate.” 

“There’s almost nothing I wouldn’t do to be 
first marshal,” said Lester. All the discontent had 
been smoothed out of his face; his eyes were 
shining. He seated himself on the corner of his 
desk and threw his arm round David. “You’re 


ANTI-CLIMAX 


221 


certainly a mighty good friend, Dave, to want to 
put me across. And I know that your backing will 
count for a lot; everybody thinks a lot of you.” 

“There are plenty of others who are with me 
in this. So don’t get the idea that there ’s nothing 
more left in life for you, Lester.” 

“ I guess I was talking like a fool, a few minutes 
ago, Dave. There ’s something in this idea that the 
fellows have about me — that I ’m too tempera- 
mental. I ’m glad you dropped in to cheer me up, 
even though it should turn out that there’s no 
chance for me.” 

“There is,” said David. “Just wait and see.” 

Lester, whose hope and ambition were stirred, 
could not wait and see. He was bound to be active 
in furthering his own interests, and he conceived 
that he could best do it by being more pleasant 
and genial than ever with every one. He began to 
call by their first names fellows with whom he had 
only a slight acquaintance; and he struck up an 
acquaintance with members of the class who had 
hitherto been too obscure or too remote from his 
orbit to win his attention. The spontaneity of his 
manner and the fact that he was so prominent a 
personage caused many of those whom he thus 
approached to be flattered by his advances; others 


222 


DAVID IVES 


resented them as obviously insincere and inspired 
by a selfish motive. The supporters of the rival 
candidates, Farrar and Colby, criticized his tactics 
freely; some ill feeling grew up among the various 
partisans. But Lester himself, however indiscreet 
he may have sometimes been in showing that he 
was eager for every vote, never uttered any words 
of detraction or disparagement about the other 
candidates and did nothing to incur their enmity. 

In the excitement of his canvass he did not turn 
with any zest to his college work. As a result 
of his neglect the college office notified him that, 
if by a certain period he failed to show improve- 
ment, he would be placed on probation. Not only 
would this mean that he would be debarred from 
participation in all athletic sports, but it would 
also no doubt seriously affect his chances of being 
made marshal. The class would be unlikely to 
confer its highest honor upon one who had failed 
to maintain a creditable standing in his studies, 
especially when such failure would mean that he 
would be ineligible for the varsity baseball nine, on 
which he had played the preceding year. 

46 1 wish I could call on you to help me the way 
you used to in the old days at St. Timothy’s,” 
Lester said to David, after telling him of his 


ANTI-CLIMAX 223 

troubles. “You used to get me over some pretty 
hard places.” 

“ I ’d do anything I could to help you,” replied 
David, “ but the trouble is you ’re not taking 
courses that I know anything about. English com- 
position is the only thing we have together, and 
there ’s no way that I can see of helping you with 
that — beyond criticizing anything that you write. 
Of course that I ’ll be glad to do.” 

“ I would n’t have any trouble with English com- 
position if I could find time to write the themes,” 
said Lester. “ But I ’ve missed some of them, 
and now I ’ve got to put in all the time getting 
ready for the examination in the other courses.” 

“You ’d better buckle right down to work,” ad- 
vised David. “ Fire your friends out of your 
room when they come to see you. Tell Richard he 
mustn’t speak to you, and don’t let yourself talk 
to him. Keep your nose in a book all day and 
half the night. Do that, and I guess you’ll come 
through. You’ve got to come through; it won’t 
do for you to be put on probation.” 

“I know it,” groaned Lester. He reached for 
a book. “All right, I’ll begin right now. Get 
out of here, you Dave, and let a fellow study.” 

There were tests in every course that Lester took 


224 


DAVID IVES 


except in English composition, and to prepare for 
the tests he had to do in less than two weeks the work 
that he had neglected for two months. Also for the 
course in composition he had in the same period 
to write a long theme. He decided to leave the 
theme until the night before it was due, and to 
give the remaining time to the other studies. 

By secluding himself for such a purpose he did 
not impair his popularity as a candidate: his class- 
mates were probably impressed by his studious 
earnestness. Through the reports of it that his 
roommate, Richard Bradley, spread abroad, it 
seemed almost heroic. If Richard was to be be- 
lieved, Lester hardly put down his books in order 
to eat or sleep. To be sure Richard had already 
achieved for himself the reputation of being Les- 
ter’s publicity agent; making all reasonable allow- 
ances, however, his classmates found his tales 
impressive. 

Lester had never found any training for foot- 
ball more exhausting than those days and nights 
of concentrated mental labor. When the time 
came for each examination he went to it, nervous 
and apprehensive. He came out from each one 
unexpectedly happy and cheerful. He knew that 
he had passed; his hard study had not been with- 


ANTI-CLIMAX 225 

out results; he felt proud of himself, of the char- 
acter and application that he had shown. 

Emerging from the last examination, that in fine 
arts, he encountered Tom Bemis, who asked him 
eagerly how he had fared. 

“ Fine,” said Lester. “ I simply killed it.” 

“That’s the stuff!” cried Tom. “Now I tell 
you what you do. You need a little rest and dis- 
sipation after all your labors. Come with Jim 
Kelly and me for an automobile ride. Do you 
good; cool the fevered brow. We’ll have supper 
at some country inn and get home before it ’s too 
late.” 

“ But I have a long theme due at noon to-mor- 
row,” said Lester. “ It ’s just as important as an 
examination, and I have n’t written a word, or even 
got an idea yet.” 

“ That ’s all right. You ’ll get ideas coming 
with us. You ’ve got to have some relaxation, you 
know. Something will snap inside your bean if 
you continue to treat it so cruelly.” 

“ What time will you get back?” 

“ Any time you say.” 

“ If you promise to get back not later than eight 
o’clock,” said Lester, “ I ’ll go with you. I ’ve got 
to be home then to write that theme.” 


226 


DAVID IVES 


“All right; we’ll do it. We want a fourth; 
there’s Chuck Morley. 0 Chuck!” 

Summoned with energetic beckoning as well as 
with vociferous shouting, the stout youth who had 
just descended the steps of the dormitory near 
which they stood approached. He consented to 
join the expedition, and early in the afternoon the 
four started off in Bemis’s new high-powered car. 

It was a sunny day, the air was mild, and the 
car ran smoothly. They sped from one town to 
another, cheerfully regardless of time and place, 
until Lester suggested that they had better look for 
an inn and have supper. It was half -past six 
before they came upon a hostelry that seemed to 
them sufficiently attractive to deserve their patron- 
age; it was eight o’clock by the time they had 
finished what they all regarded as an unsatisfactory 
and expensive meal; and it was after ten o’clock 
when they finally drew up in front of the dormitory 
in which Lester and Kelly had their rooms. 

Lester hastened up the stairs, intending to set 
to work at once upon his theme. Richard was not 
in; Lester had the room to himself; now if he 
could only think of something to write about. But 
the automobile ride, which Bemis had assured him 
would furnish him with inspiration, seemed only 


ANTI-CLIMAX 


227 


to have made him numb and drowsy. For almost 
two weeks he had been getting less than his usual 
amount of sleep. His head nodded over the blank 
page before him on his desk; he was roused by the 
slipping of the pen from his fingers. 

He rose, plunged his face into cold water and 
then walked about the room for a few minutes. 
Still finding himself unable to think of a subject 
on which he could write, he decided to go to David 
and ask for suggestions. 

It meant merely going down one flight of stairs 
in the dormitory. When he knocked on David’s 
door, however, there was no answer. He tried the 
door, found it unlocked, and entered. Then he 
turned on the light; if he sat down for a moment, 
David might perhaps come in, and anyway he 
should be just as likely to think of a subject in 
David’s room as in his own. 

On the desk lay David’s neatly folded, freshly 
typewritten theme; beside it lay the rough draft 
from which he had made the copy. Out of curios- 
ity Lester picked up the theme and began to read 
it. He became interested, for it dealt with athletics 
and their place in college life, and he recognized in 
it many ideas that he and David had frequently 
thrashed out in discussion. In fact, it was just such 


228 


DAVID IVES 


a theme as he himself might have written had he 
happened to hit upon that topic. 

It would certainly be all right for him to take 
it to his room and see whether he could not prepare 
an essay on the subject without in any way duplicat- 
ing David’s work. Perhaps in the rough draft 
there were passages that had not been used in the 
final copy and that would prove helpful. 

So Lester took the theme and the rough draft, 
turned out the light, and went back to his room. 
On looking over the rough draft he was disap- 
pointed to find that it contained nothing that did not 
appear in the typewritten copy. He set to work 
then to try to write a theme of his own, using the 
material that David had treated; but after an hour 
of effort, having written several pages and then 
having read over what he had written, he was in 
despair. He realized that any one who examined 
the two themes would say that one was merely a 
paraphrase of the other, and that the two could 
not have been written independently of each other. 

Lester was tired, sleepy, and disheartened. 
There was no use in his making further effort 
that evening; that was certain. If he got up early 
the next morning and could only think of some 
thing to write about, perhaps he could get the 


ANTI-CLIMAX 


229 


theme done. He had a class from ten o’clock to 
eleven that he must not cut, but if he could write 
from eight until ten, and then from eleven to twelve, 
he might fulfdl the requirement. But it would 
have to be a good theme ; a poor or even a mediocre 
piece of work would not save him. 

As he undressed he meditated gloomily on his sit- 
uation. For two weeks he had toiled nobly, had 
accomplished scholastic miracles, had displayed the 
best he had in him of mind and character; and yet 
it might all be of no avail — nullified by his in- 
ability to get done a single piece of writing that, 
given a little more time, he could satisfactorily do. 
Indeed, he could have done it that evening if David 
had not balked him by anticipating him, using the 
thoughts and ideas that they had exchanged, and so 
making it impossible for him to use them. If he 
missed this theme, he should be put on probation 
in spite of all his good work in the other courses; 
he should be declared ineligible to play on the 
nine; and probably he should lose the marshalship, 
which he felt was otherwise within his grasp. 

And the theme lay there on his desk. It was 
typewritten; all he had to do was to remove the 
covering page bearing David’s name and to sub- 
stitute a covering page bearing his own. David 


230 


DAVID IVES 


would never know. And David would really not 
suffer by the loss; his standing in the course was 
assured anyway; he was not trying for honors in 
English, and even if he were trying for them his 
missing one theme would not, in view of his ex- 
cellent record, he likely to count against him. No 
one would suffer, and it would be a means of 
escape for a fellow who really deserved to escape. 
Besides, thought Lester, the theme was almost half 
his anyway. David could hardly have written it if 
they had not talked the thing over together so much. 

It would not do for Richard to see the theme 
when he came in. Lester put it and the rough 
draft into a drawer of his desk and locked the 
drawer. 

He would not decide the question now, anyway. 
He was played out; a good night’s sleep would rest 
him mentally, and probably he would get up in 
the morning and find himself able to write a theme 
without any trouble. In fact, of course he would. 
It was foolish to think of anything else. So he 
tumbled into bed and instantly fell sound asleep. 


CHAPTER XV 


THE TORN PAGE 

HEN Lester awoke and looked at his watch, 



T T he was horrified to find that it was nine' 
o’clock. He leaped out of bed and dressed fran- 
tically. Why had n’t Richard wakened him! Rich- 
ard had gone — feeling, no doubt, that he could 
best display his consideration for his overworked 
roommate by letting him sleep as long as he could. 

“ Two hours — less than two hours — to write 
that theme!” muttered Lester, as he slipped into 
his clothes. “ I ’ll have to go without breakfast, 
at that.” 

He seated himself at his desk, but his mind was 
too panicky to respond to his need. He filled a 
page and a half with commonplace narrative, read 
it over, and realized in despair that, even though 
he went on in that manner for the prescribed num- 
ber of words, it would do him no good. He must 
turn in a piece of work that had some merit if he 
was to escape failure. 

Taking a fresh sheet of paper, he began an essay 


232 


DAVID IVES 


on athletics. But it seemed impossible for him to 
write anything on that subject without substantially 
duplicating David’s work; moreover, it became all 
too apparent that, even though his thoughts should 
flow smoothly, he would not have time to com- 
plete the task. The clock struck ten; he cast his 
papers aside, caught up his notebook, and hurried 
away to a lecture on fine arts. 

Although he took a few notes during the lecture, 
he gave little attention to what the professor was 
saying. His mind was busy trying to find justifica- 
tion for an act that he contemplated with aversion. 
66 It is n’t as if it were going to hurt anybody,” he 
kept saying to himself. “ It won’t affect David’s 
standing in the least.” The thought of it became 
more tolerable when he decided that at some time 
in the future he would tell David the whole story. 
64 He ’ll understand, when I make a clean breast of 
it all,” Lester assured himself. Somehow the de- 
termination to confess the truth eventually to David, 
who would be the only sufferer — except that he 
would n’t really suffer! — seemed to Lester to min- 
imize very much the seriousness of the offense, to 
make it almost pardonable. He rehearsed, of 
course, the various other excuses that had insin- 
uated themselves into his mind — the exhaustion, 


THE TORN PAGE 


233 


mental and physical, following his sustained and 
successful efforts in his other courses, the fact that 
he and David had so often talked over the ideas 
embodied in the theme and that he could not there- 
fore be really charged with taking something that 
was not altogether his own. They were flimsy ex- 
cuses, yet he was not ashamed to get some comfort 
and encouragement from them. 

After the lecture on fine arts Lester returned to 
his room, took the typewritten theme out of his 
desk, and copied off in longhand the last half -page 
of it, which bore David’s name on the back. Then he 
substituted his copy for the typewritten page and 
wrote his name on it. He tore up the page that he 
had removed and threw it into his waste-basket. 
David had not given the theme a title; Lester wrote 
in the heading, 64 The Place of Athletics in College 
Life.” And above this title he wrote, “ Please do 
not read in class.” The instructor, Professor 
Worthington, frequently read some of the best 
themes to the class, but had announced that he 
would respect the wishes of any one who did not 
care to have his theme so read. 

Having thus safeguarded himself against detec- 
tion, Lester decided to dispose of David’s first 
draft. He took the pages, crumpled them up, and 


234 


DAVID IVES 


put them into the fireplace and then touched a 
lighted match to them. In a few minutes they 
were ashes. 

Lester was reading a magazine when his room- 
mate entered. “ Hello, Lester,” said Richard. 
66 You seem to be taking things easily for a change. 
Have you got that theme done that ’s been worrying 
you?” 

44 Yes,” said Lester, 44 it ’s all done.” 

44 That ’s fine. It would have been a shame to be 
stumped by that after all that you ’ve put through 
in the last two weeks.” 

There was a knock on the door, and David 
entered. Lester instinctively put his hand to the 
inside pocket of his coat to make sure that the 
theme was hidden. 

“How are you coming along, Lester?” David 
asked. 44 Get your theme done all right?” 

44 It ’s done,” said Lester. 

44 Good work. The queerest thing has happened 
about mine. It ’s disappeared absolutely. I ’ve 
turned my room upside down, hunting for it.” 

44 You must have left it somewhere — in the 
library, perhaps,” suggested Richard. 

44 No, I have n’t taken it outside my room. Be- 
sides, the rough draft as well as the typewritten 


THE TORN PAGE 


235 


copy has vanished. I could have sworn that I left 
them on my desk last night when I went out. I 
spent the evening at home, reading to Mr. Dean. 
It was late when I got back to my room, and I 
really did n’t notice whether the theme was on my 
desk then or not. This morning when I looked for 
it I could n’t find it. Somebody must have taken 
it to play a trick on me, but he ’d better get it back 
to me soon.” 

“Who would do a thing like that?” asked 
Richard. 

“ Oh, it may be some one’s idea of a joke,” 
replied David. 

“ Even if it ’s lost it won’t make any special dif- 
ference to you, will it?” asked Lester. “You’re 
all right in the course?” 

“ Oh, yes, I ’m all right in the course, though I 
suppose it would probably lower my mark. But 
the thing is so mysterious — the disappearance of 
both the rough draft and the typewritten copy!” 

“ What do you make of it, my dear Wallace? ” 
said Richard, turning to Lester. 

“ Nothing. It ’g queer enough certainly. What 
was the theme about, Dave?” 

Even as he spoke he wondered if his voice 
could sound natural when he was feeling so utterly 
contemptible. 


236 


DAVID IVES 


“ Oh, about athletics in college and just how 
seriously a fellow should take them, and all that 
kind of thing. Some of the old arguments you and 
I have had, Lester, worked up into an essay. It 
was rather good, too, if I do say it. That ’s why it 
makes me so tired to lose it.” 

“ I guess it ’s not lost,” said Richard. “ Some- 
body must have taken it as a joke and will return 
it to you before the hour.” 

Lester made no comment. He was wishing that 
he had courage enough to pull the theme out of his 
pocket, and return it on the spot. He felt that he 
might have done so if he had not torn up the page 
bearing David’s name and substituted that incrim- 
inating page bearing his own. There was no pos- 
sibility now of his passing his action off as a joke, 
and he could not bear the ignominy of confessing 
to Richard as well as to David. 

The twelve-o’clock bell rang. Lester rose. 
“ Going over to class?” he said to David. 

“ Yes,” David answered, “ I ’ll stop in my room 
on the way downstairs on the chance that the merry 
joker has returned my theme.” 

Lester waited on the landing while David made 
a hurried search. 

“ Nothing doing,” David said as he emerged 


THE TORN PAGE 


237 


and closed the door. “ I hate to lose that theme. 
It was about the best I ’ve written in the course.” 

They reached the classroom just as the exercises 
for the hour were about to begin. Lester and 
David both went to the professor’s desk, which was 
piled with the themes that the members of the class 
had deposited there. Lester drew the theme from 
his pocket and quickly thrust it into the pile. He 
lingered to hear what David would say. 

64 Mr. Worthington,” said David, 44 1 had my 
theme all written and copied yesterday. To-day I ’ve 
looked everywhere for it, and it’s simply disap- 
peared. I don’t understand it — whether it got 
thrown away by mistake or what happened to it.” 

44 You say that you had it all written and ready 
to hand in?” said Professor Worthington. 

“Yes, sir.” 

44 Perhaps it will turn up in a day or two. Any- 
way, I ’ll give you an extension of a week. I don’t 
feel that I can excuse you from handing in the 
theme, but you may have a week in which to make 
it up.” 

44 Thank you, sir.” 

Lester, having overheard the conversation, went 
to his seat with a new anxiety to worry him. It 
troubled him all through the hour. 


238 


DAVID IVES 


After the class he joined David. 64 It ’s a shame,” 
he said, 46 that Worthington would n’t excuse that 
theme when you told him how it was. What are 
you going to do about it?” 

44 Oh, I ’ll make it up. He ’s given me a week to 
do it in.” 

44 1 don’t suppose you can rewrite the theme, can 
you?” 

44 1 ought to be able to. I have it pretty well in 
mind.” 

44 But it would be such a stupid job, doing it all 
over again. You probably would n’t do it nearly 
so well as you did it the first time. I should think 
you ’d better write on something else ; you ’d have 
more interest then.” 

44 1 won’t go at it at once, anyway. I ’ll wait a 
couple of days and then see how I feel about it.” 

44 1 think you ’d make a great mistake not to take 
a fresh subject,” said Lester earnestly. 44 Working 
over the old one — you ’d make it sort of perfunc- 
tory and lifeless. You’d better take my advice 
and tackle something new.” 

44 Well, I ’ll see if any new idea comes to me. 
But it probably won’t, and I guess the old theme 
wouldn’t lose much from rewriting. I remember 
it pYetty well.” 


THE TORN PAGE 


239 


“ I know, but when you come to writing it all 
out again, you ’ll find it so tedious that you won’t 
do yourself justice.” 

“ I ’ve got a week, anyway, and I sha n’t go at it 
at once.” 

Lester saw no valid ground on which he might 
pursue the argument. When he entered his room, 
Richard Bradley turned from the desk at which he 
was sitting. “ Here ’s a queer thing, Lester,” he 
said. “ A little while ago I wanted to look up a 
notice in to-day’s Crimson , and I could n’t find the 
sheet anywhere. So I pulled out your waste-bas- 
ket to see if you ’d thrown it in there, and this piece 
of that theme of Dave’s caught my eye.” He 
held up the torn piece with David’s name and the 
name of the course and the date written on the 
back. 

“ Isn’t that the limit!” said Lester. He felt that 
his face was set and that his voice was querulous 
rather than expressive of astonishment, but he 
could not dissemble more successfully; the shock 
of this new discovery was too unkind. “How do 
you suppose it got there?” He made no effort to 
take the paper and examine it. 

“ I can’t imagine.” 

“Have you told Dave about it?” 


240 


DAVID IVES 


“ No ; I went down to his room when I discovered 
it, but he was out.” 

“ Well, he was probably in here with his theme 
some time in the last two or three days when 
neither of us was in and decided he did n’t like the 
last page of it. So he probably just chucked it 
into my waste-basket and went home and wrote 
another last page.” 

“ I suppose that might have been it,” said 
Richard doubtfully. 

“ There ’s no other way of accounting for it that 
I can see,” said Lester. 64 And I tell you, Dick, 
if I were you I would n’t go to Dave about this 
thing. Professor Worthington ’s given him a 
week’s extension to make up the theme, and the less 
he thinks about the old one the better job he ’ll 
do on the new. He ’s bothered himself almost dis- 
tracted over what happened to that theme, and we 
want to get his mind off it completely. Let ’s see 
the thing, anyway.” 

Richard gave Lester the paper, and Lester 
scrutinized it thoughtfully. “ Of course,” he said, 
“that’s just what happened. It’s the last page; 
he wanted for some reason to rewrite it and so he 
just chucked it away wherever he happened to be. 
Let’s chuck it back into the waste-basket and not 


THE TORN PAGE 241 

bother him about it. Since when have you taken to 
scavenging in waste-baskets, Dick?” 

“Well,” said Richard slowly, “I didn’t find 
what I wanted. So I guess I won’t do it again.” 


CHAPTER XYI 


LESTER AND DAVID 

HE object for the attainment of which Lester 



A had made so lamentable a sacrifice had ceased 
to be of interest to him. He no longer thought or 
cared anything about the marshalship. If by 
giving up his chance of winning it he could have 
regained the place that he had held in his own 
eyes before he took the theme and could have 
made himself secure against exposure, he would 
have made the surrender joyfully. 

“ If I ever do a crooked thing again as long as 
I live, I hope I may go to jail for it!” he exclaimed 
to himself. 

He was alone in his room; he stood gazing out 
of the window at the quiet yard. Fellows were 
passing along the walks, happier, every one of 
them, than he. His roommate had gone out a few 
minutes after making the remark that had seemed 
to Lester ominous. Richard suspected him of 
some queer work about David’s theme; that was 
evident. And probably Richard would go to 


LESTER AND DAVID 


243 


David and tell him of the discovery that he had 
made. Then there would have to be more lying, 
and in spite of it the suspicion would probably 
remain. And if David chose to reproduce the 
theme and hand it in, no further lying would 
avail. Lester would be convicted in spite of all 
his denials. 

“ If I had ever dreamed of what I was letting 
myself in for, I never would have done it,” he 
thought. “Nothing but one lie after another, 
getting in deeper all the time! It seems as if 
there were no end to it.” 

He wondered whether Richard had really gone 
to consult with David about the fragment of the 
theme that he had found in the waste-basket. 
It was the natural thing for him to do. And 
when David said that he had never taken the 
theme into Lester’s room, or torn up a page of 
it, or thrown it into the waste-basket, what would 
they both think? What was he to say if they 
came to question him? 

That evening, while Lester was trying to fix his 
mind on the French lesson for the next day, 
Richard came in and greeted him genially. 
“You seem to have got the study habit,” said 
Richard. “There aren’t any more exams for a 
couple of months, you know.” 


244 


DAVID IVES 


“Yes, I know, but I’m going to try not to 
slide back again.” 

Evidently Richard had not talked with David 
about the theme. Perhaps he had dismissed the 
whole thing from his thoughts, or perhaps he 
had even been impressed with the appeal, weak 
though it was, not to bother David about it. Any- 
way, Lester began to feel a little more hopeful 
of escaping detection. If only David would decide 
to write on a new subject! 

Richard had not forgotten about the theme; 
nor had he been impressed with Lester’s appeal, 
except unfavorably. But he had decided that 
if Lester had done a mean thing he did not want 
to know it. He never had known Lester to do 
anything mean; he admired him more than he 
admired any other fellow in college, and he 
wanted to go on admiring him. It couldn’t help 
David at all to tell him of the discovery; and 
what was the use in acting as a detective against 
a friend? Richard disliked mischief-making; he 
had decided not to carry on any further in- 
vestigations about David’s theme. 

When another twenty-four hours had passed and 
Richard’s attitude remained as friendly and cheer- 
ful as ever, Lester felt encouraged. He had been 


LESTER AND DAVID 


245 


apprehensive when he came out from one of his 
classes and encountered Richard and David walk- 
ing together, but they had greeted him cordially in 
a manner that caused him to think that they were 
not making him the subject of discussion. And 
later in the day Richard’s cheerfulness confirmed 
Lester’s hopes. There remained only the danger 
of David’s rewriting the theme. Lester felt that 
he must know soon what David was going to do. 

In the hope of finding out he went that evening 
to David’s room and, as it happened, immediately 
received the information that he desired. David 
was sitting at his desk, writing; a sheet of paper 
in front of him was half filled. 

“Beat it!” said David. “Don’t you dare to 
disturb me. I ’ve just caught an inspiration for 
that theme.” 

Lester’s heart gave a leap. “All right, Dave; 
I ’ll clear out. Might I ask what the subject is 
to be this time?” 

“You. You and all your works.” Lester 
stood momentarily aghast until David explained. 
“ Campaigning for office, electioneering, managing 
a candidate; I’m getting in all the cracks I can 
at you, your rivals, their managers, your mana- 
gers, and at college politics in general.” 


246 


DAVID IVES 


“ That ’s a good subject. Don’t be too hard on 
me.” 

Outside David’s door, Lester could hardly re- 
strain his joyful emotions. Never in the world had 
there been any one so lucky, so undeservedly 
lucky, as he. The last peril of discovery was 
past; no one would ever know the base thing that 
he had done; his reputation was safe. But he 
should never forget the shamefulness of his act 
and of the lying that had followed it; he could 
never think of it without a sickness of the heart. 
Surely he could never do anything mean and 
crooked again. Surely he would do what he could 
to prove to himself that he had some decency and 
honor. If the fellows chose to elect him marshal, 
he would accept the election because to decline 
without giving adequate reasons would be virtu- 
ally impossible. But he would not lift a finger to 
win the election. He would stick quietly to his 
books and try by his studiousness and indifference 
to popularity and honors to win back some meas- 
ure of self-respect and of faith in his own character. 

That evening for the first time since he had 
taken the theme he was able to concentrate upon 
his work. He sat up studying until long after 
Richard had gone to bed and stopped only when 
his eyes closed with drowsiness. 


LESTER AND DAVID 


247 


The next day Lester and David walked together 
to the meeting of the class in English composition. 
They took their seats; Lester’s seat was immedi- 
ately behind David’s. 

Professor Worthington opened a theme. 46 Usu- 
ally,” he said, 46 1 acquiesce in the wishes of those 
who ask that their themes be not read to the class. 
But I shall venture to disregard one such request 
for the reason that the writer of the theme has 
taken a subject that is not in any way personal and 
that is of general undergraduate interest. I hope 
that he will not object. The title of the theme is 
4 The Place of Athletics in College Life’.” 

Lester’s brain swam; he felt faint and sick. 
Instinctively he tried to appear impassive, and 
when the reading began and David in the seat in 
front sat up with excitement and then turned and 
let his eyes rove questioningly over the faces of 
those behind him, Lester’s countenance was un- 
moved. But David’s eyes did not rest on Lester; 
with their puzzled and indignant expression they 
swept back and forth, but they did not so much as 
glance at any of his friends. Finally David 
turned and settled down into his seat while the 
reading proceeded. 

Slowly Lester rallied from his mental collapse. 


248 


DAVID IVES 


What was he to do now? David would go to the 
desk at the end of the hour and tell Professor 
Worthington that he was the author of the theme. 
Expulsion from college was the penalty for cheat- 
ing in examinations; expulsion from college was 
probably the penalty for stealing another fellow’s 
theme. To be expelled for any misdeed was bad 
enough, but to be expelled for cheating and 
theft — what could be more terrible! Lester felt 
that his mother and his father could not bear it; 
he could not go home to them branded in such a 
way by the college. He must somehow keep 
David from telling Professor Worthington about 
that theme. 

The reading of it went on. At the end Pro- 
fessor Worthington said: “That is the kind of 
theme I should like to get more often than I do. 
It deals with a subject that is of undergraduate 
interest and one on which you must all have done 
some thinking and talking. The reader feels that 
it is written with a certain authority, that the writer, 
either from his close observation of athletics or 
participation in them, knows what he ’s talking 
about. The first requisite to writing well about 
a thing is to know the subject thoroughly. There 
is no doubt that the writer of this theme knows 
athletics thoroughly.” 


LESTER AND DAVID 


249 


Professor Worthington let his glance fall on 
Lester with an approving and encouraging smile. 
He then took up another theme and resumed his 
reading. 

Lester felt for an instant that Professor Worth- 
ington’s glance and smile had identified him for the 
class. Then he knew that this could not be, es- 
pecially when the man on his left murmured to 
him, 66 Mighty good theme; wonder who wrote it.” 

As the hour dragged on, Lester, inattentive to 
the reading and to the instructor’s comments, tried 
to formulate in his mind the appeal that he should 
make to David, turned from it in disgust, thought 
with bitterness of the cruel mischance of which, 
after having safely passed all the perils that had 
threatened him, he was now the victim, and turned 
again to the framing of his excuses and his plea. 

When the bell rang at the end of the hour, in 
the instant confusion and clatter that arose as the 
members of the class got to their feet, Lester 
grasped David’s arm. 

44 Dave,” he whispered, 64 please don’t speak to 
Professor Worthington about that theme of yours 
till after I have a talk with you.” 

At first David did not understand. 44 Which 
theme? ” he said. 44 That about electioneering? ” 

44 No. The one that he read to the class.” 


250 DAVID IVES 

David looked at him, amazed. 44 Did you do 
that, Lester?” 

46 Yes. Wait till I can tell you about it, Dave.” 
Lester’s face was pale, his eyes were pleading. 

44 All right; I ’ll wait for you outside.” 

They separated; Lester went to Professor 
Worthington’s desk, and David passed out of the 
door. There were three other students waiting at 
the desk to speak to Professor Worthington, but 
he noticed Lester approaching and reached out 
the theme to him. 

44 That ’s a fine piece of work, Mr. Wallace,” he 
said. 44 Do another as good. You ’ll excuse me, 
I know, for reading it to the class. I was sure 
they ’d be interested.” 

44 Yes, sir,” said Lester quietly and turned away 
with the theme. The other fellows waiting at the 
desk looked at him with interest. 

In the corridor of the building David was await- 
ing him. Lester put the theme into his hands. 
44 There’s your theme, Dave. You can see what 
I did to it.” 

David glanced at the outside sheet, which bore 
Lester’s name. He said nothing until after they 
had descended the steps of the building. Then 
his voice was not unsympathetic as he asked, 44 How 
did it happen, Lester?” 


LESTER AND DAVID 


251 


“ I was n’t able to write the theme because I 
was studying for the examinations in the other 
courses. Then when they were all over, the last 
night before the theme was due, I was pretty much 
all in. I couldn’t write; I couldn’t think of any- 
thing to write about. Then I decided to go down 
to your room and see whether you could help me 
with a subject. You were out, but I saw your 
theme on your desk, and I sat down and read it. 
Then the thought just came to me that with your 
record it wouldn’t matter much if you missed 
that theme, and that if I could hand it in as mine, 
it would save me from probation and all that 
sort of thing. I thought I ’d try again in the morn- 
ing to do the work myself, but if I couldn’t I 
might use your work. So I took the theme and 
the rough draft to my room and put them into 
my desk. Then I went to bed, and I slept until 
after nine the next morning. That gave me too 
little time to do the writing in, though I did try; 
I even went without breakfast, trying. And it 
wasn’t till just a little while before you came 
and told Richard and me about losing the theme 
that I ’d copied off the last page and written my 
name on the back and destroyed the first draft.” 

64 It ’s too bad,” murmured David. He had been 


252 


DAVID IVES 


walking with his eyes fixed on the ground in front 
of him; he did not want to embarrass his friend 
with his gaze. 64 1 wish I ’d never found it out. 
Come up to my room, Lester, where we can talk.” 

They ascended the stairs of the dormitory in 
silence. David threw open the door of his room, 
and Lester entered. Then David closed and locked 
the door. 44 Sit down, old man.” He looked at 
Lester for the first time and saw how ashen white 
he was, and pity overflowed in David’s heart. 
44 Why, you poor old boy,” he said and put his 
arm affectionately inside Lester’s arm, 44 sit down 
and don’t look like that.” 

Then Lester tried to smile, but failed utterly. 
Tears sprang into his eyes and began to run down 
his cheeks. 44 David,” he cried, 44 1 ’m ashamed, 
so ashamed! I hate myself!” His voice broke; 
he sank into the chair at David’s desk and, throw- 
ing out his arms, hid his face in them. 

David patted him on the back and talked sooth- 
ingly. 44 Don’t think of it any more, Lester. We ’ll 
never think of it again. It will be just between us 
two ; and you must n’t let it break you all up like 
this. I know how sorry you are. And you really 
weren’t yourself when you did it; you were all 
worn out.” He stroked the back of Lester’s head 
gently. 


LESTER AND DAVID 


253 


“ Dave,” Lester said in a trembling voice when 
at last he raised his head, 44 you ’re the whitest man 
I know. When I think how I stole from you and 
lied to you — and then you treat me like this!” 
Again the sob came into his throat, and he could 
not go on. 

David squeezed and kneaded the muscles of 
Lester’s arm. 44 You ’re all right, Lester,” he said. 
46 All you need is a little more muscle in another 
place than this. And you ’re getting it.” 

44 I know I ’m weak, weak as water,” said Lester. 
44 But I never thought I was dishonest. Not even 
back in school, when I did that rotten thing to Mr. 
Dean — cribbing the lessons in class when he was 
blind. This is the first crooked thing I ’ve done 
since then, and it’s worse, because I’m older; 
and I went from one mean and crooked thing to 
another — there seemed no end to it. Dave, do 
you think it will be that way with me always? Do 
you think that every once in so often I ’ll give way 
and do some perfectly rotten, dishonorable thing?” 

44 Of course you won’t. You ’ll never do any- 
thing of the sort again as long as you live. And 
now, old fellow, you ’ve got it out of your system, 
and let ’s not ever speak of it again. And every- 
thing will be as it was before, just as if it had 
never happened.” 


254 


DAVID IVES 


44 1 don’t believe there’s another fellow in the 
world who could say that or think it,” said Lester. 
44 But nothing can be quite as it was before, Dave. 
For instance, what ought I to do about running for 
marshal? Ever since I did this thing I ’ve known 
that I ’m the most unfit man in the class to be 
marshal. And I suppose there ’s a chance of my 
being elected. What ought I to do?” 

44 1 can’t see that you ought to do anything. I 
think you just ought to attend to your own affairs 
and let the election take its course.” 

44 But if I should happen to be elected I could n’t 
enjoy the honor a bit.” 

“That would be part of your punishment. But 
you can’t reject the honor before it comes to you, 
or even afterwards.” 

44 Don’t you think you ought to let it be known 
quietly that you’ve found I ’m not the man for it, 
and that I think so, too, and would prefer not to 
have the fellows vote for me?” 

44 No, I don’t think so. It would start a lot of 
talk and gossip and inquiry, and what would be 
the use? Why not let the class go ahead and elect 
whomever they will? If it happens to be you, 
why, just put the best face you can on it.” 

Lester thought for a moment. “You’re prob- 


LESTER AND DAVID 


255 


ably right. But I hope they won’t elect me; and 
you can be sure that I ’ll not act any more in a way 
to catch votes. I ’m afraid I was doing that before 
I did this worse thing.” He rose and took David’s 
hand. “You certainly are a good friend, Dave. 
And I ’ve been a pretty useless one to you.” 

“ You ’ve always been a source of pride to me,” 
said David. Lester winced. “ And you will be 
again,” David added hastily. “ And if the class 
elects you marshal, I sha n’t feel that they ’ve made 
such a fearful mistake. I ’ll enjoy the honor for 
you.” 

He unlocked the door, laughing, and gave Les- 
ter an affectionate slap on the back as he passed out. 


CHAPTER XVII 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 

F ROM his talk with David, Lester went away 
chastened yet light of heart — more cheerful, 
indeed, than he had ever hoped to be again. He 
had confessed, had been forgiven, and was secure 
in the knowledge that now the episode was closed 
and that no one else would ever hear of it. But 
he had gone through too much in the past few days 
to forgive himself as readily as David had forgiven 
him; he was sincere in his determination to court 
obscurity now rather than prominence and for the 
rest of his college course to live the unassuming 
life of the student. 

With that resolve in mind he immediately as- 
cended from David’s room to his own, and there 
he was engaged in study when Richard Bradley 
entered half an hour later. Richard at once began 
to talk about the campaign for the marshalship. 

“ The general opinion now seems to be that 
you’ve got a sure thing for first place,” he said. 
“Farrar will get second and Colby third. I’ve 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 


257 


heard lots of fellows who don’t know you at all 
well say they were going to vote for you because 
they think you ought to have been captain of either 
the eleven or the nine and that the least the class 
can do is to make it up to you.” 

“ It ’s good of you to take such an interest, Dick,” 
said Lester. “ But I ’ve got over my craving for 
honors and popularity — at least I think I have. 
I honestly think that either Farrar or Colby 
deserves the job more than I do.” 

There was a knock at the door; then Harry Daw- 
son, who was the editor of the college literary 
periodical, entered. He was a pleasant-looking 
fellow, lively in speech and manner, and with an 
engaging brightness in his brown eyes. He began 
briskly: 

“ I came round, Wallace, to ask you if you 
would n’t let us print that theme of yours that was 
read in class. It ’s one of the best things I ’ve 
heard this year. I asked Professor Worthington 
afterwards who wrote it, and he referred me to 
you.” 

Lester, sitting at his desk, was drawing lines 
with his pencil on his blotting-pad. “ No, I guess 
not, Dawson,” he replied. “ Thanks just the same, 
but I don’t care to have it printed.” 


258 


DAVID IVES 


“ But why not?” Dawson urged. “ As Mr. 
Worthington said, it’s a subject that the whole 
college is interested in. And to have it treated by 
you, with your record in athletics — ” 

“ I don’t care to have it printed. I ’m sorry.” 
Dawson was disposed to argue. “ Don’t you think 
you ought to subordinate your own preference? A 
college publication has the right to expect the sup- 
port of the fellows. You oughtn’t to have any 
false modesty about such a thing as this.” 

“ It is n’t false modesty. I simply — ” 

“ Sure, it is,” interrupted Richard. “ Give him 
the theme, Lester, don’t be such a pig.” 

“Keep out of this, will you, Dick?” Lester 
raised his head to glare angrily at his roommate. 
He turned then to Dawson. “ That theme is n’t 
going to be printed ; that ’s all there is about it.” 

“ Oh, all right. Sorry to have bothered you.” 
Dawson, red and indignant, rose and with a flash- 
ing glance at Lester, who had again relapsed over 
his blotter, left the room. 

“ Now what did you want to talk to the fellow 
like that for?” said Richard resentfully. “A per- 
fectly good fellow who comes and pays you the 
compliment of asking you for your theme, and 
you throw him down in the most uncivil way! Be^ 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 


259 


sides trying to snap my head off! You’d better 
get back to your old life if hard study makes you 
behave like this.” 

46 All through?” asked Lester grimly, looking 
up at his roommate. 

“Yes.” Richard seized a book and dashed it 
opon wrathfully. 

For some minutes there was quiet in the room. 
Then Richard, who, in spite of a certain rigidity 
that characterized him when any matters of prin- 
ciple were involved, was of too accommodating 
and friendly a disposition to remain at odds with 
any one for insufficient reasons, began to make 
overtures. 

“ Lester,” he said, “ why did n’t you tell a fellow 
you’d had your theme read in class? You’re so 
secretive. When I have a little success I run home 
and blab it all to you; but when you do anything 
I can’t dig it out of you with a pickaxe.” 

“ It was n’t anything,” said Lester, with his eyes 
on his book. 

“Yes, it was, too, or Dawson would never have 
been so enthusiastic. What was your theme about?” 

“ Oh, never mind ! Can’t you see I want to 
study?” 

“ Well, it ’s easy enough to answer a simple 


260 


DAVID IVES 


question, isn’t it? I should think when a fellow 
shows some interest in what you ’ve done you 
might do something else than bark at him.” 

“ Oh, that ’s all right. But I ’ve got to study, 
and I don’t care to be interrupted all the time.” 

44 Well, just tell me what your theme was about, 
and I ’ll let you alone.” 

Lester, enraged by this badgering, brought his 
fist down on the desk. 44 No, I won’t tell you what 
it was about!” he cried. 44 I won’t tell you anything 
about it! Mind your own affairs!” 

44 Oh, very well, then,” retorted Richard. 46 Since 
you ’re so stuffy about it, I ’ll find out all about it. 
All I have to do is to ask Dawson.” 

He felt even in his indignation that he was being 
childish, and he was unprepared for the sharp, 
immediate change that his words produced in Les- 
ter’s attitude and expression. Lester leaned back 
in his chair, and the look of sullenness on his face 
gave way to one of resignation and weariness. 

44 1 ’ll tell you all about it, Dick,” he said. 44 1 
was hoping I could keep it from you; but it begins 
to look as if there were no use in trying to keep it 
from any one. The theme that was read in class 
was Dave Ives’s, not mine. I took it out of Dave’s 
room and handed it in as mine. I changed the last 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 


261 


page of it. That was how you happened to find 
that page of Dave’s theme in my waste-basket.” 

He realized already that Richard’s reaction to 
the confession was not at all the same as David’s 
had been. There was no sign of compassion in 
Richard’s face, only distress and even repugnance. 

“ David knows the whole story,” said Lester. 
“ If you want to, you can talk it over with him.” 

66 1 don’t see how you came to do it.” 

66 Pressure of work that had to be made up — 
no time to write the theme and it had to be a good 
one, or else I stayed on probation. I suppose you ’d 
call it just weak and dishonest — as it was.” 

44 Well,” said Richard slowly, after a pause, 44 I 
can understand why you shouldn’t care to be 
elected marshal now.” 

Lester made no response, and Richard did not 
inquire further into the circumstances of the mis- 
deed or comment on it. After a little time Richard 
rose to leave the room. 

Lester looked up at him imploringly. 44 There ’s 
one thing, Dick, that I wish you ’d understand,” 
he said. 64 1 ’m not feeling callous about this.” 

44 No,” said Richard gravely, 44 1 suppose not.” 

He opened the door and went out. Lester sat 
gazing into space with unhappy eyes. He had lost 


262 


DAVID IVES 


the respect of one whom he liked, of a friend who 
had been even a hero worshiper. He deserved to 
lose it, he knew, yet he could not help feeling that 
Richard might have been less cruel. He wondered 
how they could go on living together now. 

Then he reflected again that he was receiving 
no more punishment than he deserved, and that, if 
he was to win back his own self-respect, it could 
be only through hard and honest work. So he 
settled down to his studying and put Richard res- 
olutely out of his mind. 

Meanwhile Richard had accepted Lester’s sug- 
gestion and had gone to hear David’s version of 
the story. Yet, although David made all the excuses 
for Lester’s action that were possible and enlarged 
upon his penitence, Richard’s condemnation re- 
mained unqualified. There was in him an inherited 
strain of inflexibility in judging deviations from 
standards of integrity and truth. 

“ He simply did a thing that an honorable fellow 
would n’t have done,” insisted Richard. “ And then 
he lied about it. He did n’t own up to it until he 
was cornered and could n’t lie any longer. I don’t 
doubt that he ’s sorry and all that ; but when you 
can’t respect a fellow any more, what are you to 
do?” 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 


263 


“ I don’t go so far as that,” said David. “ He ’s 
making a fight now to win back his own self-respect 
and my respect and yours. Give the boy a chance.” 

“ What chance has he? I don’t see any.” 

66 Well, if he keeps up the pace in studies that 
he’s been setting for himself, cuts out for good 
the idleness and loafing that were responsible for 
his getting into trouble, shows he isn’t seeking 
popularity any more and does n’t care anything 
about it — I should think then you could begin 
to respect him again.” 

“It would help,” admitted Richard. “Though 
hard work can’t exactly cancel a dishonorable act.” 

“Friendship might help it to,” said David. 

Richard pondered, frowning. “ I ’m not sure 
that it is n’t my duty to do everything I can to keep 
him from being elected marshal.” 

“ If you feel a real call to duty, go to it,” said 
David with mild irony. “ You ’re a true son of 
the Puritans, Dick.” 

“You can scoff if you want to. But here you 
and I have been doing all that we could to get 
Lester elected first marshal, and now we find that 
he ’s unfit to have the honor. You ’ll agree to that, 
I suppose?” 

David hesitated. “ I don’t know that I ’d say he 
was unfit.” 


264 


DAVID IVES 


“ You don’t mean that you ’ll still vote for him?” 

“ I ’m not sure that I sha n’t.” 

“You mean to say you may vote to give the 
highest honor in the class to the one man in 
the class who you know has done a dishonorable 
thing?” 

“I haven’t fully decided. He’s the most bril- 
liant athlete we’ve got, he’s the most popular fel- 
low generally, and he ’s my oldest friend.” 

“ If he ’s elected, an injustice is done to Farrar 
or Colby, either of whom would be chosen in pref- 
erence if the truth were known.” 

“ It won’t be a very serious injustice. Farrar’s 
had the captaincy of the football team, Colby ’s had 
the captaincy of the crew; Lester’s never had any- 
thing, though he has contributed more to our athletic 
success than any other fellow in college.” 

“ I don’t know whether you ’re too lax in your 
ideas, or whether I ’m too stiff in mine,” said 
Richard after a moment, “ but certainly one of us 
must be wrong.” 

“My idea simply is: he’s a friend, he feels 
badly, he’s filled with remorse — treat him with 
consideration.” 

“Mine is that friendship shouldn’t blind us to 
his acts or cause us to inflict injustice upon 
another.” 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 


265 


“What would you do to prevent what you call 
injustice?” asked David. “ Would you go about 
telling everybody to vote for Farrar because you 
had discovered something that, if it were generally 
known, would make Lester ineligible?” 

“That’s the trouble; I don’t know just what I 
ought to do. If anybody asks me, I ’ll say that 
I ’m not supporting Lester, and that I can’t advise 
any one else to. Then of course I ’ll be asked why, 
and I shall simply have to say that I can’t tell, 
but that I have good reasons. Perhaps that isn’t 
going far enough. Perhaps I ought to go round 
and see all the fellows that I ’ve called on in Les- 
ter’s interest and tell them that in my judgment 
it’s all off.” 

“ If you do either of those things,” declared 
David, “ you ’ll start a lot of gossip. If you can’t 
conscientiously vote for Lester, don’t; that’s all 
right. But don’t go round trying to influence 
people to vote against him. You ’ll only blow up 
a scandal that won’t do any one any good.” 

“ I don’t see exactly how.” 

“ Why, some of Lester’s friends will be indignant 
and will demand that you tell what you know or 
else keep quiet. You’ll be driven to hinting and 
finally to telling. And I must say I think that 


266 


DAVID IVES 


it would be a great misfortune, not only to Lester, 
but to the class, to have publicity given to this 
matter.” 

“ Yes, but on the other hand is it fair to keep 
quiet and perhaps let Lester have the honor that 
some one else deserves?” 

“That seems to me of small importance. If it 
isn’t Lester, it will be Farrar or Colby. They’ve 
had pretty much all the recognition they need — 
captain of the eleven and captain of the crew; 
they ’ll be second and third marshals, anyway. I 
should n’t worry about them.” 

“ Lester can’t enjoy it very much if he ’s elected.” 

“ He certainly can’t. He does n’t want to be 
elected. But I don’t feel called upon to protect 
him from it.” 

“ I still can’t see how or why he ever came to do 
it,” said Richard. 

“ No, but I feel sure he ’ll never do anything 
crooked again. Don’t make him feel he ’s a leper, 
Dick. Give him another chance.” 

“ You mean treat him just as if nothing had hap- 
pened? I can’t. Something inside me won’t let 
me. 

“How are you going to treat him, then?” 

“ I don’t know, except that I can’t be on such 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 267 

easy terms with him any more. This thing has 
spoiled him for me.” 

64 1 don’t believe one act changes a fellow all 
over. You ’ve known Lester pretty intimately and 
have always liked him and even admired him. 
This thing that he ’s done is n’t characteristic of 
him, I feel sure.” 

“Don’t you suppose there are lots of men in 
prison for doing things that aren’t really char- 
acteristic of them? It’s the act itself — the kind 
of act that it was — that a fellow can’t overlook.” 

“ I ’m sorry you feel as you do.” 

“ So am I. But I can’t help it.” 

When Richard returned to his room, Lester was 
writing and did not look up. Richard settled him- 
self in a chair and began to read. The silence to 
which the two thus committed themselves became 
characteristic now of their relations. They did not 
actually cease to be on speaking terms with each 
other, but they addressed each other as seldom as 
possible. Lester no longer availed himself of what 
had been a standing invitation to dine on Sunday 
at Richard’s house in Boston. Mr. and Mrs. Brad- 
ley and Marion asked Richard why Lester had 
dropped them, and Richard replied that he guessed 
that was n’t it, but that Lester had given up going 


268 


DAVID IVES 


out anywhere to dine with people. The family 
looked mystified, but for the time being did not 
pursue the inquiry. 

On the day of the senior-class elections Lester 
was greeted with friendly smiles from numerous 
classmates as he walked from his room to the vot- 
ing place. 

“ It ’s a sure thing for you,” said one who came 
out of the building as Lester entered. 

“ It should n’t be,” Lester answered. His friend 
laughed, not taking the remark seriously. 

The ballots were counted that evening. Lester 
and Richard were as usual silently engaged with 
their books when there was a tumultuous rush up 
the stairs and a banging on the door. Lester 
opened the door; instantly half a dozen joyous 
youths seized upon him, grasped his hands, beat 
him on the back and poured out the good news. 

“ You got it all right.” 

“ You beat Farrar by a hundred votes.” 

“You beat Colby by a hundred and fifty.” 

“ Well, old top, how does it feel to be marshal?” 

Lester showed his embarrassment. “ It ’s mighty 
good of you fellows to come and tell me,” he said. 
“ But I don’t deserve to be marshal at all.” 

“ Oh, that ’s the way they always talk,” replied 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 269 

Joe Bingham. “ We know better than you do 
whether you deserve it or not.” 

“No, you don’t. You ask my roommate here; 
he knows me better than any one else.” 

Lester spoke on a sudden wild inspiration. If 
he were given a chance, he would tell the crowd, 
resign, let Farrar have the place to which he was 
entitled — 

“No, he doesn’t deserve it,” said Richard 
quietly. “ I did n’t vote for him.” 

The fellows laughed; they took Richard’s re- 
mark as a joke. They stayed a few moments 
longer, holding a jubilation over their friend’s suc- 
cess, and then clattered noisily down the stairs. 

A few moments later another caller appeared 
to offer his congratulations. It was Farrar, who 
had just been elected second marshal. He was a 
square-set, stocky fellow, with a good deal of force 
showing in his face; he was not handsome; he was 
blunt and downright of manner. Although through 
their prominence in athletics he and Lester had 
been brought into close association with each other 
throughout their college course, they had never 
been particularly friendly or sympathetic. 

When Lester saw who his visitor was he stood 
up; he felt his face growing hot. Richard swung 


270 


DAVID IVES 


round in his chair and looked on; the realization 
that he was interested heightened Lester’s embar- 
rassment. 

“ I want to congratulate you,” said Farrar, tak- 
ing Lester’s hand. “ I want to be among the first.” 

“ Thank you,” said Lester. “ It ought really to 
have been you, Jim.” 

“ No, it ought n’t. I won’t say that I ’m not 
disappointed; of course any fellow who felt that 
he stood some show of winning such an honor can’t 
help being disappointed a little. But the best 
man won.” 

“ No,” said Lester slowly, “ that ’s just what he 
did n’t do.” 

“ Oh, yes, he did. I might n’t have admitted 
it a month or two ago ; I ’d have been likely to 
say to myself then that you won by making up to 
fellows for their votes. But you didn’t win that 
way; you won on your record fair and square. 
And I don’t feel half so disappointed as I would 
have felt if you’d got it by electioneering instead 
of by just plugging away at your job and letting 
your record speak for you. That’s why I say the 
best man won and the class is to be congratulated.” 

He gave Lester’s hand another firm squeeze. 
After he had gone, Lester sat down again at his 
desk. 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 271 

“ I suppose you find it very entertaining,” he 
said to his roommate. 

“I find it painful,” Richard replied frankly. 
“ The next person that comes in — I ’m going to 
get out.” 

It was but a few moments before another con- 
gratulatory friend arrived, and Richard, true to his 
word, took his departure. He stayed away from 
the room all the rest of the evening; and meanwhile 
Lester received a succession of visitors, among them 
Colby, the third marshal — all generously come to 
express their satisfaction at his success. 

At ten o’clock, in order to protect himself against 
a prolongation of the ordeal, he turned out the 
light, undressed in the dark, and went to bed. He 
lay awake for a long time; he heard Richard come 
in and go to bed, and he wished that he had never 
seen Richard. At last an idea that gave him some 
comfort came to him, and while he was turning it 
over in his mind he fell asleep. 

David had not been among those who had rushed to 
give Lester their congratulations. He had felt that 
if Richard were in the room it would be awkward 
for both Lester and himself. But the next morning 
he left his door open while he dressed and so caught 
sight of Lester descending the stairs. He hailed 


272 


DAVID IVES 


and halted him, and then he said: “Even though 
I did n’t come to see you last night, Lester, I want 
you to know that I ’m glad you got it. I voted for 
you.” 

Lester’s smile, even though forlorn, showed his 
gratitude. “ I don’t see how you can reconcile it 
with your conscience,” he said. “ But I sha n’t 
worry about yours; I ’m having trouble enough 
with my own. Do you suppose if I went round 
to your house some time to-day I could see Mr. 
Dean?” 

David looked astonished. “ Yes, I ’m sure you 
could. Almost any time. He ’s always at home.” 

“ Then I ’ll call on him some time this after- 
noon.” 

“ He ’ll be glad to see you,” said David. 

That afternoon, when Lester called and asked 
for Mr. Dean, he was shown into the library. 

Presently Mr. Dean appeared at the doorway, 
unpiloted. “ Hello, Lester,” he said, advancing 
slowly. “ I know where everything is in this room 
except you.” 

“ Right here,” said Lester, taking Mr. Dean’s 
hand. 

“ It ’s very good of you to think of coming to 
see me. Have a chair.” Mr. Dean seated himself 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 273 

on the sofa. 44 1 understand that you have achieved 
high honor. That’s fine — fine.” 

“ I don’t think it ’s so fine,” said Lester. 44 It ’s 
about that I wanted to talk with you — if you’ll 
be good enough to let me.” 

44 Of course. What ’s the trouble?” 

44 1 feel especially ashamed to come to you about 
it, and yet in another way it seems as if for that 
reason I should — you have more knowledge of 
what I ’m like, and I think you ’ll understand 
better,” Lester said awkwardly; he found it hard 
to make a beginning. The dark glasses gave to 
Mr. Dean’s face an inscrutable expression that was 
not helpful. “That mean and dishonest thing I 
did to you at St. Timothy’s — cribbing my Latin 
every day in class when you were n’t able to see.” 

Mr. Dean made a gesture, impatient, deprecat- 
ing. 44 That ’s all forgotten, Lester,” he said 
gravely. 

44 But something ’s happened that makes it nec- 
essary to recall it.” Lester leaned forward and 
twined his fingers together and looked at the floor; 
he was as uncomfortable as if the eyes that seemed 
to be gazing at him could really see. 44 1 ’ve done 
the same kind of thing again — only worse, much 


worse. 


274 


DAVID IVES 


Then awkwardly, haltingly, he told the story. 

“ Of course I see now what I should have done,” 
he said in conclusion. “I ought to have insisted 
diat my name should n’t be voted on — I ought to 
have withdrawn it — even if it meant telling people 
why. David’s almost too good a friend; he’s so 
kind and sympathetic; he did n’t want me to do that. 
And I was too willing to see things as he saw them.” 

“ Perhaps,” assented Mr. Dean, 44 and perhaps 
David gave you wrong advice. But somehow I 
should have been sorry if David had talked or 
acted in any other way. If I had been in David’s 
place, I hope that I should have done as he did.” 

44 But I can’t bear it now,” cried Lester. 44 Far- 
rar’s coming to congratulate me because the best 
man won — and his admitting he was disappointed 
because he did n’t win! I tried to cheat you in that 
Latin class, I cheated David out of his theme, and 
I cheated the professor I handed the theme to, I ’ve 
cheated Farrar out of the honor he deserved — but 
I ’m not going to — I’m not going to! I want you 
to stiffen my backbone for me, Mr. Dean!” 

44 Why, my boy,” said Mr. Dean, much affected 
by the emotion in Lester’s voice, 44 1 don’t believe it 
needs any stiffening from me.” 

44 Oh, it does. I ’m weak, but I am going to try 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 


275 


never to be so weak again. And I want to make 
things right with Farrar. Don’t you think I ought 
to? Don’t you think I ought to resign and make 
the class have a new election in which my name 
should n’t he considered?” 

“ I think,” said Mr. Dean, “ that you ought to 
do the thing that will best satisfy your own con- 
science. Yes, I think that in the circumstances 
you ought to resign.” 

“That, I know, is the way my roommate feels 
about it. Do you think that in resigning I ought to 
tell why?” 

“ I should think that might not be necessary; it 
may be enough if you merely say that for certain 
definite reasons you are not entitled to the honor 
and that you wish to resign in favor of a man who 
is entitled to it. Of course you may be pressed 
to give the reasons. If you are, you will have to 
decide, I think, whether to tell the whole story or 
not.” 

“I know I ’m a coward; I hope it won’t be 
necessary.” 

“ I hope it won’t be,” replied Mr. Dean gravely. 
Then after a moment he said: “Do you feel under 
any obligation to say anything about the matter to 
Professor Worthington?” 


276 


DAVID IVES 


“ Oh!” said Lester. “ To tell the truth, I had n’t 
once thought about that.” 

“Of course, as things stand, you’re receiving 
credit for work that you did n’t do, and David is 
not receiving credit for work that he did. Not that 
David cares, I imagine. To make a clean breast 
of the affair to a member of the faculty might 
result in your being severely disciplined; it might 
have serious consequences for you.” 

“Yes,” Lester said; “I suppose that at the least 
I should be put on probation.” 

“To avoid which you did the thing that caused 
all the trouble.” 

Lester hesitated a moment; then he said: “I 
guess I ’d better take my medicine. I ’ll go and 
see Professor Worthington.” He rose. “You’ve 
been a great help to me, Mr. Dean. You Ve helped 
me to see things straight. I think it must be fine 
for David — having you at hand to turn to. Not 
that he needs such help as I do.” 

“We can all of us help somebody else at some 
time or other,” replied Mr. Dean. “ Do you ever 
go up to St. Timothy’s, Lester?” 

“ I haven’t been there for some time.” 

“ Take a Sunday off and run up there. It does 
every one good to revisit old scenes and see old 
friends.” 


THE FIRST MARSHAL 


277 


“ I should like to go after I ’ve squared accounts 
with myself. Nothing will do me good until then.” 

Mr. Dean stood up; his groping hands found 
Lester’s shoulders. “ Not until we find out how 
weak we are do we know what we must do to be- 
come strong,” he said. “ You ’ve found out; you ’ve 
begun to build yourself up. I’d trust you any- 
where now, Lester, at any time.” 


CHAPTER XVIII 


RELINQUISHMENT 

L ESTER walked with rapid steps to the house 
I of Professor Worthington. Now that he had 
decided what to do he was in haste to get it done. 
He found Professor Worthington at home and 
within a few moments had made a complete con- 
fession. 

“ I should n’t have expected such a thing as that 
from a man of your caliber,” said Professor Worth- 
ington. “You’ve just been elected first marshal 
of your class, haven’t you?” 

“ Yes, sir. I ’m going to resign.” 

“ On account of this thing?” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Do many members of the class know what you 
did?” 

“Two. David Ives and my roommate.” 

“ Are they likely to tell any one else?” 

“ No, sir. They would n’t tell.” 

“ Do they think you ought to resign?” 

“ One does, and the other does n’t.” 


RELINQUISHMENT 279 

“ Did they advise you to come to me? ” 

“ No, sir. But Mr. Dean, who used to be a mas- 
ter at St. Timothy’s, where I went to school, ad- 
vised me.” 

“ How did he happen to know the facts?” 

“I told him. I felt I needed advice as to what 
to do.” 

“I am satisfied,” said Professor Worthington. 
“I shan’t do anything about the matter; or rather 
the only thing I shall do will be to raise Ives’s marks. 
You ’ve done excellent work in the course since the 
thing happened, and I am simply going to forget 
what you ’ve told me.” 

He showed his friendliness by walking arm in 
arm with Lester to the door when Lester, after 
murmuring his gratitude, rose to go. 

Lester felt that now he could face the final ordeal 
with cheerfulness. He went directly to the room 
of Tom McKee, the president of the senior class, 
and found him tipped back in his chair, with his 
feet on his desk and a volume on economics open 
against his knees. 

“ Tom,” he said, 66 1 want you to call a meeting 
of the class for to-morrow night. Get the notice 
of it in to-morrow morning’s Crimson . It ’s on a 
matter of importance.” 


280 


DAVID IVES 


“ Sure,” said Tom. “ The first marshal’s word 
is law. What ’s up?” 

“ I can’t tell you now. But you ’ll see that the 
notice goes in, won’t you? And make it urgent; 
we want everybody to come.” 

McKee reached for a pad and a pencil and 
wrote out the following: 

Seniors! Important meeting at Harvard Union at 
eight o’clock this evening. Very urgent. Everybody 
come. 

T. McKee, 
President . 


“ How’s that?” he asked. 

“ Fine. And tell the fellows that you see, so that 
they ’ll talk it up.” 

“ Anything that you want me to do at the meet- 
ing?” 

“Just call it to order and let me have the floor, 
if you will.” 

“ All right; that ’s easy. I ’ll make sure that we 
can have the assembly room at the Union, and then 
I ’ll turn this notice in at the Crimson office. I ’m 
glad you don’t want me to make a speech.” 

“ I wish I did n’t have to make one,” said Lester. 

That evening the members of the senior class 


RELINQUISHMENT 281 

crowded into the assembly room; they filled the 
benches; they sat on the radiators; they stood 
against the walls and in the doorway. The notice 
of the meeting had excited curiosity, which had be- 
come increasingly keen since it appeared that no 
one knew why the meeting had been called. During 
the preliminary noise, the scraping of chairs and 
benches on the floor, the thumping and scuffling of 
feet, and the loud buzz of conversation, Lester sat 
on a bench immediately in front of the platform, 
silent, unresponsive to those near him. 

McKee mounted the platform and stood behind 
the chairman’s table. He rapped on the table; he 
raised his voice; gradually the crowd became 
silent. 

“ The meeting will please come to order,” 
shouted McKee. “ I have called this meeting at 
the request of our first marshal, and I will ask Mr. 
Lester Wallace to state what is in his mind.” 

Amid enthusiastic applause Lester rose. This 
was the first opportunity that the class as a whole 
had had to show its satisfaction at the outcome of 
the election. The applause swelled, slackened, and 
swelled again; it continued and continued while 
Lester, white and unsmiling, waited for a chance 
to speak. At last there was quiet, and he began 
in a voice that shook a little: 


282 


DAVID IVES 


“ Fellows, I wanted you all to be here — ” 

“Louder!” came a shout from the back of the 
room. 

“ Get up on the platform!” cried another voice. 

“Yes! Platform!” shouted others. 

Lester obeyed the command; he stepped up on 
the platform and took his stand beside the chair- 
man’s table. “ Fellows,” he said, “ ever since the 
election I ’ve been very uncomfortable in my mind. 
I ’ve known that I ’m not fit to be first marshal or 
to hold any office in the class.” 

A cry of derision and protest went up from the 
audience. 

“ I ’m in earnest about this,” Lester continued 
when he was able to make himself heard. “ There 
isn’t one of you that would have voted for me if 
he ’d known what I know about myself.” 

“We ’re all miserable sinners,” cried a cheerful 
voice; and the crowd broke into laughter that kept 
renewing itself irrepressibly just as quiet seemed 
about to be restored. 

Lester stood perplexed; that his tragic speech 
should be greeted with laughter was a thing for 
which he was quite unprepared. “ I ought to have 
withdrawn my name instead of allowing it to be 
voted on,” he said, and again he was interrupted. 

“ Sit down!” shouted some one. 


RELINQUISHMENT 283 

“Forget it!” cried another. 

And both outcries brought great demonstrations 
of approval from the audience. 

“ I ’m not going to sit down, and I can’t forget 
it,” Lester said with a flash of spirit. “ I wish I 
could. I ’m here to tender my resignation as first 
marshal, and I hope you will accept it unani- 
mously.” 

“ Why?” shouted several voices. 

“ Because I ’ve done a thing that makes me unfit 
to hold any position of honor or trust in the class,” 
said Lester firmly. 

“ What was it?” demanded some one. 

Then there was a hush. Lester looked out over 
the audience; his face was pale. “ I stole a fellow’s 
theme and passed it in as my own,” he said. “ I ’m 
through. Elect some one else.” He stepped down 
from the platform and took his seat while his 
classmates sat in silence. 

In the middle of the hall Farrar rose. “Mr. 
President!” he said. Farrar had a big voice of 
great carrying power; moreover, his manner was 
forcible and decisive. 

“Mr. Farrar has the floor,” announced McKee. 

“ I wish to say I respect Lester Wallace for his 
courage,” said Farrar. “ And I move that his 


284 


DAVID IVES 


resignation be not accepted. We can afford to 
overlook this slip of his that he’s told us about. 
He was the choice of the class, for first marshal, 
and I don’t believe that any one here is going to 
feel that the choice was a mistaken one. I move 
that his resignation be not accepted.” 

46 Second the motion!” shouted some one amidst 
a great burst of applause. 

Then Robert McClure, who had been an active 
supporter of Farrar, stood up. “ Mr. President,” 
he said. “ I think that this question is one that 
should n’t be decided hastily. I think we ought to 
have more information before we come to a deci- 
sion. We don’t know anything about the circum- 
stances in regard to this theme that Mr. Wallace 
has mentioned. I hope we may have some further 
information. And, anyway, I think we ought to 
hold a new election. We want to settle this matter 
with common sense and deliberate judgment, not 
with snap judgment and emotion.” 

Lester again rose and faced the audience. 66 1 
will give you all the information I can. I was in 
trouble with the college office ; I was trying to make 
up work in other courses, and I neglected my work 
in the composition course. A theme was due, and 
I had n’t written it. I knew that if I did n’t hand it 


RELINQUISHMENT 285 

in, I should be put on probation. I took a friend’s 
theme without his knowledge and handed it in as 
mine. That ’s the whole story. I want to say that, 
much as I appreciate Mr. Farrar’s remarks, Mr. 
McClure is absolutely right. I have resigned as 
first marshal, and the class will have to hold an- 
other election.” He sat down, and again there was 
silence. 

McKee, the president of the class, rose. 64 We 
all regret very much the action that it seems nec- 
essary to take,” he said. 44 1 will appoint, as a 
committee to arrange for a new election of class 
officers, Mr. McClure, Mr. Ives, and Mr. Roberts; 
and I will ask them to publish as soon as possible 
the announcement of such arrangements as they may 
make. The meeting is adjourned.” 

McKee leaped from the platform and seized Les- 
ter’s hands. 44 That took courage, old man,” he 
said. 44 1 hope they reelect you just the same; 
but if they don’t, remember this: there are a lot of 
us that stand by you.” 

44 Thank you, Tom.” Lester found now that he 
could not speak; and there were other fellows 
crowding round him with assurances of their un- 
shaken faith. He got away from the throng as 
soon as he could and went to his room. 


286 


DAVID IVES 


Richard Bradley arrived a moment later; he 
came at once to Lester and seated himself on the 
arm of his chair. “ I ’m sorry I ’ve been so mean 
to you, Lester,” he said. 

“You haven’t been mean; you’ve been just 
right,” Lester answered. “ And I ’m glad now that 
every one knows. It makes me ashamed, but some- 
how it ’s a relief. I hope you ’ll think better of 
me sometime, Dick.” 

“ I think better of you now,” Richard said. 
“And I can tell you one thing, Lester; whether 
you ’re elected marshal or not, you have n’t lost a 
single friend.” 

Nevertheless, the ordeal through which Lester now 
had to pass was humiliating to one who had never 
been distinguished for the virtue of humility. He 
felt that wherever he went he left a trail of gossipers 
behind him. He knew that his fall from grace was 
the subject of discussion wherever two or three 
seniors were gathered. 

The committee appointed by McKee issued a 
notice that the election would be held on a certain 
day; and in the interval before that day debate as 
to Lester’s availability went on almost without 
ceasing. David Ives and Richard Bradley declared 
that atonement washed away sin; they pleaded that 


RELINQUISHMENT 287 

Lester should be triumphantly reelected first marshal 
— with an even larger majority than before, if 
possible; they pointed out that by thus honoring 
him the class would be recognizing not merely the 
athlete and popular hero, but also a fellow who 
had shown moral courage of a high sort. The 
argument was attacked; the exact details and cir- 
cumstances of Lester’s crime were inquired into 
and brought to light. The investigators declined 
to exonerate him because of a belated confession. 
Why, they asked, should a fellow who had done a 
thing of which he finally had the grace to be 
ashamed be preferred over fellows who had never 
stooped to a dishonorable action. 

The election was held. Farrar was chosen first 
marshal, Colby second, and McKee third. Lester 
received thirty votes out of four hundred and 
forty. 

The election, the resignation, and the new elec- 
tion were not events that could escape publicity. 
The college newspaper contained accounts that 
hinted at the facts without actually giving them. 
Lester knew that the story would go everywhere; he 
wrote a detailed narrative and sent it to his father. 
The letter that he received in reply made him think 
that his family, who were those most cruelly hurt 


288 


DAVID IVES 


by the act, would be the last to forgive. The letter 
closed with the words: “Your mother and I had 
been planning to come on for your graduation. I 
don’t think now that we can bring ourselves to 
do it.” 

There was another letter that Lester wrote, as 
bulky and explicit as that which he had sent to his 
father. It went to Ruth Davenport, at St. Timothy’s. 
Her reply showed a more forgiving heart; and the 
correspondence that followed was a thing that 
helped Lester in a dark time. 

The other thing that helped him was his new- 
found earnestness in study. In former days he had 
given the greater part of his time to the pursuit of 
amusement; now during the winter months virtually 
the only recreation that he permitted himself was 
reading. When spring came he went out again for 
baseball; and, playing first base on the university 
nine, he showed more zest in the practice than he 
had ever exhibited before. His experiences and 
the reflections to which they had given rise had in 
a few months matured him. Some of the fellows 
on the nine came to look to him rather than to the 
captain for leadership; and he was tactful in con- 
tributing to the general efficiency of the team with- 
out infringing on the captain’s prerogative. He 


RELINQUISHMENT 289 

enjoyed playing baseball, and this year he played 
it with something more than enjoyment. To help 
the nine to win seemed to him his special respon- 
sibility; it would be part of his atonement. 

He adopted Mr. Dean’s suggestion and went up 
to St. Timothy’s School for a Sunday. Revisiting 
the place had such charms for him that soon after- 
wards he proposed to David that they make a trip 
to it together. 

44 Fine idea,” said David. “ I ’ve been more or 
less neglecting Ralph. It ’s time I was seeing what 
the kid is up to.” 

One of the things that Ralph was most astonish- 
ingly “ up to ” was art. With embarrassment and 
blushes he brought out a large portfolio filled with 
drawings, which he exhibited to his brother. David 
examined them with increasing respect. He knew 
just enough about the fine arts to know that for a 
schoolboy the sketches were extremely good. There 
were pictures of school scenes, of the pond with 
the crews on it, and of various masters; there was a 
sketch of Ruth Davenport, at which David looked 
with special interest. 

64 That ’s a mighty good likeness,” he said. 
44 You ’ve improved a lot over the little kid sketches 
you used to make. Has anybody been teaching 
you?” 


290 


DAVID IVES 


64 No.” Ralph looked at his brother hopefully, 
shyly; and then said, “I want to be an artist, 
Dave.” 

“ When did that idea come over you?” 

“ I don’t know exactly. This year. I know 
that it ’s the one thing I want to do.” 

“ You ’ll have to talk it over with Mr. Dean. 
Pity he can’t see your work and judge for himself.” 

“ Yes. But if I were to take lessons this summer, 
and the teacher thought it worth while for me to 
go on — ” 

“ You would n’t want to give up going to Har- 
vard, would you, in order to start right in and 
study art?” 

“I ’d give up anything!” Ralph’s eyes flashed; 
David was amazed at the glint through their softness. 
“ I should like to go to Harvard, of course, but if 
it’s wise for me to go to an art school instead, I 
should n’t hesitate. Not for a minute.” 

“ Did you get Ruth to sit for that portrait?” 

“Yes. No; that is, she asked me to do a sketch 
of her. Tom Windsor had been telling her about 
some drawings I ’d made of fellows, and she gave 
me this chance.” 

David looked at the picture again admiringly. 
Though Ralph was just a boy, lie had somehow 


RELINQUISHMENT 291 

caught the whimsical, appealing expression that 
played about Ruth’s lips and the merry look of 
her eyes. 

64 That ’s all I ’ve got to show you,” Ralph said 
and began to put away his work. 64 It ’s too line a 
day to sit indoors.” 

They went for a walk past the old mill and then 
out to the wood road that led to the lake. It was a 
warm and sunny afternoon in June, with a light 
wind that set the long grass of the meadows stream- 
ing, the gold of the dandelions glittering, and the 
tender green leaves of the young birches dancing; 
in the meadows chirped robin and blackbird; 
among the birches and the pine trees song sparrows 
and thrushes were singing; down through the forest, 
melody and sunlight showered together, and the 
ground exhaled the fragrance of moss and fern and 
violet — all the moist odors of the spring. 

There was the flash of a bird overhead across 
the shadowed path, and then from a copse near by 
came a plaintive fluting call. 

44 A veery,” said Ralph. 

64 Well!” exclaimed David, 44 1 don’t know a 
veery from a vireo. And you did n’t either a year 
ago.” 

44 1 ’ve got interested in birds this spring. Tom 


292 


DAVID IVES 


Windsor is a shark on them, and so is Mr. Ran- 
dolph. I ’ve gone out with them a good deal. Any- 
thing that has color I like to know about and watch.” 

David was silent, marveling at his ignorance of 
his own brother, his ignorance of the developing 
and unfolding that had been taking place in the boy. 
No longer was Ralph just an unformed human 
being of obvious impulses. What reserves of feel- 
ing and determination and thought had been assem- 
bling in him during this year in which he had 
assumed both a new gentleness and a new harness? 
David felt a new sense of respect for his brother, 
and also and rather sadly he felt more remote from 
him. 

Trying to read his brother, he kept glancing at 
him while they walked quietly along the grassy 
wood road. Suddenly Ralph stopped; David, fol- 
lowing the direction of his gaze, saw seated on a 
knoll under some pine trees a little way ahead a 
man and a girl; the man’s arm was round the girl’s 
waist, and their heads were close together. Their 
faces were not visible; but the white hat with the 
cherry-colored ribbon and the white dress with the 
cherry-colored sash made David know that the girl 
was Ruth, and the man he recognized as Lester. 

Noiselessly and without looking behind them, 


RELINQUISHMENT 293 

Ralph and David retraced their steps. Neither of 
them spoke for some time. 

“ You won’t tell any one,” David said. 

“No, of course not.” Ralph’s tone was indig- 
nant. Then the schoolboy in him found expres- 
sion. “ Blatch and Manners will be all broken up. 
I bet they soak it to the fellows in Latin and 
mathematics when they learn. They ’ll just have to 
take it out on somebody.” 

“ You don’t sound very sympathetic with them.” 

“ Well, it seems ridiculous to think of them or 
anybody else imagining that they had a chance 
when there was Wallace!” 

“ Yes,” said David, “ it does seem ridiculous.” 

He spoke gayly, and in truth there was nothing 
but unselfish gladness in his heart. A year ago 
such a discovery as he had just made might have 
occasioned other emotions. But it was all right 
now; it was all just as it should be. Lester was a 
mighty lucky fellow, and when you came right 
down to it, David loyally added, Ruth Davenport 
was a mighty lucky girl. 


CHAPTER XIX 


ATTAINMENT 


HE afternoon of Class Day was bright and 



X sunny; the curve of the Stadium, banked with 
spectators, mostly feminine, glowed and sparkled 
while the seniors, in academic cap and gown, 
marched behind their spirited brass band into the 
arena. Seating themselves upon the grass, they 
formed a somber center for a setting so gay and 
flashing; yet the jewel, if so the composite mass 
might be designated, was not without its sparkle. For 
the class humorist, Harry Carson, mounted the 
platform and, standing against a screen of greenery 
that had been erected for the occasion, delivered 
his address. David was sure that no other Ivy 
orator had ever been so witty or so brilliant or had 
ever drawn such frequent bursts of laughter from 
an audience. He gave his ears to the speakers, 
but his eyes to his mother and Katharine Vance, 
who were sitting together in one of the lower tiers 
of seats. He was eager to see how they were re- 
sponding to Harry Carson’s humor — eager to see 
them laughing at the jokes. Or perhaps it would 


ATTAINMENT 


295 


be truer to say that he was eager to see Katharine 
laughing and amused. She did not disappoint his 
glances; her sense of humor was sympathetic with 
his, and she had a sufficient knowledge of college 
matters to appreciate some of the orator’s remarks 
that left Mrs. Ives, who was less well informed, 
looking bewildered. David was finding in those 
days that the best enjoyment of all lay in seeing 
the person for whom he cared enjoying the things 
that he enjoyed. 

After the Ivy orator had finished, Jim Farrar, the 
first marshal, led the cheering — for the president 
of the university, for the faculty, for the football 
team, the crew, the nine. Lester Wallace was in 
New Haven with the nine, battling against Yale 
at that very hour. The last and most appreciated 
cheer was for the ladies; when the applause occa- 
sioned by it had died away, the band struck up 
“ Fair Harvard,” and the spectators rose and joined 
with seniors and graduates in the singing. Then, 
while the band played a lively air, the seniors 
marched out along the track directly beneath the 
lowest tier of seats; and while they marched they 
were pelted with bright-colored streamers and with 
showers of confetti; they were pelted, and they 
returned the pelting; back and forth flew the light 


296 


DAVID IVES 


missiles, weaving gay patterns in the air. David 
waved to Katharine Vance; her eyes flashed a merry 
greeting in reply; then she flung a small paper 
bomb at his head. David caught it and threw it 
back; it struck the brim of her hat and burst into 
a shower of bright fragments. Then a streamer 
tossed from some other hand entwined itself round 
David’s neck and another bomb caught him in the 
ear and exploded satisfactorily; he passed on, fish- 
ing with one finger for the scraps of paper that 
were working down inside his collar. 

At the exit David fell out of line and stood 
for a while looking on at the lively scene. The 
graduates marched by in the order of their classes, 
pelting and being pelted; shrieks rose from ladies 
who were unable to dodge the soft missiles; tri- 
umphant shouts and laughter came from those who 
scored or suffered hits; arms waved, heads and 
hats ducked and bobbed, colored streamers flut- 
tered and floated and flashed; and the brass band 
receded into the distance, with the black-gowned 
seniors marching behind it. 

David made his way up into the section in which 
his mother and Katharine were stationed. He 
stood with them and watched the final exchanges 
between the spectators and the last stragglers among 
the graduates. 


ATTAINMENT 297 

44 1 don’t think any of them look as nice as this 
year’s graduating class,” said Katharine. 

46 And I ’m sure that none of them ever had such 
nice people to see them graduate,” said David. 

Katharine, with her gay laugh, and Mrs. Ives, 
with her quiet smile, were equally pleased. 

44 1 suppose some time, David, you ’ll get over 
making such polite and flattering remarks to me,” 
said Katharine. 

David affected surprise. 44 Why, what was there 
in that remark that you could take personally?” 

44 Oh, I wish I had a real bomb to burst on you!” 
exclaimed Katharine. 

44 Then I should not be able to take you 
to the festivities this evening,” said David. 44 1 
suppose that now we might as well be on our way.” 

At Harvard Square Mrs. Ives left them and went 
home; the festivities, she said with a laugh, were 
not for her. Katharine and David stopped in front 
of the bulletin that announced the victory of Har- 
vard over Yale in baseball by the score of 5 to 3. 

44 Is n’t that great!” said David. 44 Now to-mor- 
row we ’ll surely win on our own grounds. I 
wonder what Lester did.” 

44 Sometimes you make me almost jealous of 
Lester,” said Katharine. 44 1 almost think you like 
him more than you do me.” 


298 


DAVID IVES 


“ I like him a lot,” replied David. “ But not 
more than I do you.” 

The “ spread ” to which David conducted Kath- 
arine was one of numerous “ spreads,” as they were 
called, at which members of the graduating class 
entertained their relatives and friends. This par- 
ticular one was held on the lawn adjoining a dor- 
mitory; small tables were set out on the grass; in a 
tent at one side there was dancing; electric lights in 
Chinese lanterns that were strung overhead illum- 
inated the scene when twilight fell. Katharine 
and David and Richard and Marion Bradley seized 
upon a table and refreshed themselves with lobster- 
Newburg, strawberries and ice cream; then they 
strolled about among the tables, greeting friends 
and being introduced to friends of friends. Ro- 
mance was in the air; several engagements that 
had been announced that day were a topic of 
conversation, particularly as the seniors who had 
thus plighted themselves and the girls to whom 
they were plighted were present and were receiving 
congratulations and undergoing inspection. It was 
impossible for Katharine and David to remain 
unaffected by such an atmosphere. 

“ Don’t I wish we were announcing our engage- 
ment, too!” murmured David to her in one of 


ATTAINMENT 299 

the moments when they had the table to them- 
selves. 

64 But you know we ’ve talked it all over, David. 
And with four years in the medical school ahead 
of you — it would be foolish, wouldn’t it?” 

Katharine’s voice was a little wistful; it betrayed 
a desire to be overruled. 

“Then let’s do something foolish,” said David 
earnestly. 44 I know there ’s nothing that can 
change my feeling about you in four years, or in 
forty. Our families know how we feel about 
each other; they’re satisfied. What’s the use of 
pretending we ’re not engaged, when we are? 
Let’s have the fun of it to-night.” 

“ Goodness!” said Katharine. 44 It awes me aw- 
fully. But — all right. How do we begin?” 

“Let’s begin with Richard and Marion,” said 
David. 44 Here they come now, back from dancing.” 

“ Shall we, really?” 

44 Yes. Be a sport.” 

When Richard came up he asked, 44 Why are n’t 
you two dancing? Have a turn with me, Kath- 
arine.” 

44 She ’s got something to tell you first,” said 
David. 

44 You needn’t put it all on me,” said Katharine. 


300 


DAVID IVES 


“You can tell Richard. Marion, I know you’ll 
be glad to hear that David and I are announcing 
our engagement.” 

Marion looked for an instant startled and un- 
certain, and for the same instant her brother stood 
gaping. Then she exclaimed, “ Katharine dear, 
it’s true, isn’t it!” and flung her arms about her 
friend’s neck. 

Richard seized David’s hand, crying, “ Bully for 
you, Dave!” and with the other hand grasped Tom 
Anderson, who happened to be strolling by. “ Here 
Tom, what do you think of this? New engagement, 
just out!” And before the astonished and some- 
what embarrassed Tom had finished congratulating 
the pair, Richard had hailed other friends; and 
presently Katharine and David were the center of 
more attention than in their rashness they had 
bargained for. 

Later they slipped away from the spread and 
went into the College Yard. There they heard the 
glee club sing and walked under the Chinese lan- 
terns that were swung among the trees, and stood 
by the fountain that played and plashed and shone 
in the soft light. 

“ I ’ve come to every class day since I ’ve been 
in college,” said David. “ But it ’s more like 
fairyland to me to-night than it ’s ever been before.” 


ATTAINMENT 301 

64 For me, too, David,” said Katharine in a low 
voice. 

It was late that evening when David arrived at 
his room in the dormitory. He had begun to un- 
dress when there came a knock on the door, and 
Lester entered. He was looking very happy. 

David hailed him jovially. “Tell me, Lester, 
what did you do? Crack out a couple of home 
runs, or something like that?” 

“No; I only got a double.” 

“ How many on bases?” 

“Two.” 

“ So you brought in two runs. Well, that ’s not 
so bad. And I guess you ’ll do even better to-mor- 
row.” 

“ I hope so,” said Lester. “ I ’d like to do well 
to-morrow, for you see Ruth will be there. I wanted 
to tell you, Dave; to-morrow she and I are an- 
nouncing our engagement.” 

“ Fine enough!” cried David. “ I always felt it 
would come sometime. It ’s splendid, Lester. But 
I beat you to it. Katharine Vance and I announced 
our engagement this evening.” 

Lester was enthusiastic in his expressions of 
rejoicing. 

“ I suppose in a way it was rather foolish of 


302 


DAVID IVES 


us,” admitted David. “With four years at least 
ahead of me in which I sha n’t be earning a cent, 
and probably six or seven, anyway, before I 
can afford to get married. But Katharine was 
game for it — and somehow there’s a satis- 
faction in letting our friends know how we feel 
about each other.” 

“ Yes,” said Lester. “ Ruth and I have no very 
immediate prospects. I ’ve got over those get-rich- 
quick ideas I used to air so freely, Dave. I ’m 
starting in next week to work in a cotton mill 
down in New Bedford. I ’m going to try to learn 
the business from the bottom up.” He added mus- 
ingly, “With the real things of life so close to 
us, isn’t it funny that I should think of that game 
to-morrow as so important?” 

“ No,” said David. “ Of course it ’s important. 
It’s a thing you’ve worked hard for; it’s a thing 
the whole college is keen about.” 

“ Yes, but it ’s more important than in just that 
way,” said Lester slowly. “I feel as if it were 
going to be the first real test of me for Ruth. 
She ’ll be with my mother and father; they saw the 
game at New Haven to-day. At one time I thought 
they wouldn’t come to see me graduate — you 
know why.” 


ATTAINMENT 


303 


“ Of course they ’d come.” 

“Yes, they’ve forgiven me. So has Ruth. I 
told her the whole story about myself, Dave.” 

“ That must have been hard,” said David, a good 
deal moved. 

“ I felt that it was only fair to her. It was 
right that she should know how weak I ’d been 
and should realize what a chance she might be 
taking if she said yes. It hurt her terribly. But 
she believes in me in spite of all. She feels sure 
I can never be so weak again. You and she have 
been as splendid to me as any two human beings 
could be — far more so than I deserved.” 

“ She ’s a brick,” said David. “ And you don’t 
need to worry about the need of making a good 
showing in the game to-morrow. You’ll do that, 
anyway; but you could strike out every time you 
came to bat, and it could n’t affect Ruth’s feelings 
for you in the least.” 

“It mightn’t, except that she realizes I have a 
special responsibility to the college and the class, 
after what I did. And if instead I should do 
poorly — ” 

“ Forget it,” said David. “ You go right to bed 
and sleep. You’ll do your best. Don’t worry.” 

“ I guess that’s good advice.” Fester turned to the 


304 


DAVID IVES 


door. “ Oh, by the way, Dave, would it be all right 
for me to bring Ruth and mother and father round 
to your house after the game? She ’d like to see 
your family, and so should I.” 

“ Mother and Mr. Dean will be delighted,” said 
David. “ I ’ll have Katharine there, too.” 

David sat with Katharine at the game, and in the 
row in front of them and only a short distance 
away sat Ruth and Mr. and Mrs. Wallace. Across 
the intervening backs they exchanged nods and 
smiles. Ruth at the beginning of the game was 
radiant, but as it proceeded the expression with 
which she followed Lester’s movements became 
anxious and troubled. As for David, the course of 
events filled him with dismay. Harvard was being 
beaten, and almost worse than that Lester was 
playing wretchedly. He muffed a throw at first 
base that let in a run; he struck out in the second 
inning, when he first came to bat; he struck out 
again in the fourth and again in the seventh. 

“Isn’t it awful!” David muttered to Katharine, 
when after the last failure Lester walked with 
hanging head to his seat. 

“Yes, I feel so sorry for him. I suppose he’s 
just overcome with the responsibility — having 
Ruth here, and their engagement just out, and 
everybody expecting him to do great things.” 


ATTAINMENT 


305 


Overcome by the responsibility; yes, that was it, 
David knew, and he knew that Lester would in- 
terpret his failure in this game as another mani- 
festation of incurable weakness. Of course Ruth 
would not so regard it, but David found himself 
concerned now with Lester’s own soul and the 
damage that would be done to it should that self- 
confidence which had been already so shaken be 
destroyed. 

When Harvard came to bat in the last half of 
the ninth inning, Yale was leading by a score of 
6 to 3. People were already leaving the stands, 
and moving languidly toward the gate, admitting 
defeat. Then suddenly the whole complexion of 
the game changed; a base on balls, an error, a 
scratchy little infield hit; the bases were filled, 
with none out, and the spectators were on their feet, 
cheering and shouting. 

“ He can’t strike out now; he can’t!” murmured 
David. 

For it was Lester that advanced to the plate. 

“ Why don’t they put some one in to bat for that 
fellow!” exclaimed a man standing behind David. 

He had hardly finished the remark when the 
pitcher delivered the last ball of the game. There 
was the resounding crack of a clean and solid hit; 


306 


DAVID IVES 


there was a tumultuous outburst of sound from the 
crowd; the ball flew far over the head of the center 
fielder, who went sprinting after it to no purpose. 
“ The longest hit ever made on this field,” affirmed 
the ground keeper afterward. The centerfielder was 
just picking up the ball when Lester crossed the 
plate with the fourth run of the inning, the winning 
run of the game. 

Before he could make his escape a mob of shout- 
ing classmates bore down upon him. Hundreds of 
Harvard men swarmed over the fences and in an 
instant had possession of the field. Lester was 
hoisted to the shoulders of a group who clung to 
him firmly despite his struggles and appeals. 
“Right behind the band!” they shouted; and right 
behind the band they bore him, up and down the 
field, at the head of the ever-lengthening, joyously 
serpentining, and wildly shouting procession. All 
the other members of the team had been allowed 
to slip off to the locker building; but the crowd 
clung to Lester; they bore him proudly, like a 
banner. They carried him past the stand in which 
Ruth sat; he looked up at her; she waved to him; 
and probably Katharine and David were the only 
persons who saw the tears running down her cheeks. 

An hour later there was a joyful gathering in 


ATTAINMENT 


307 


Mrs. Ives’s parlor. Mr. Dean succeeded in captur- 
ing Ruth with one hand and Lester with the other. 

66 So you ’ve closed your athletic career, Lester, 
in a blaze of glory and a blare of sound. I’m 
delighted — especially for Ruth’s sake. But I don’t 
mind saying that your great triumph is not in 
winning the game, but in winning Ruth.” 

“ Indeed, I realize that,” said Lester. 

“ Anyway, that home run was the most splendid 
sort of engagement present,” said Ruth. 64 If you ’d 
struck out that time and given me a string of pearls, 
it could n’t have consoled me.” 

44 If I ’d struck out that time,” said Lester, 44 1 
don’t believe that even you, Ruthie, could have 
consoled me.” 

44 We ’d have been two broken hearts, still trying 
to beat as one,” said Ruth. 

44 Well, I guess it would be pretty hard for us 
to be any happier than we are,” said Lester. 44 And, 
Mr. Dean, I want to tell you before saying good- 
bye how grateful I am for the great help that you 
gave me. And when I say that, Ruth knows exactly 
what I ’m talking about.” 

44 Yes,” said Ruth in a low voice. 44 1 ’m so 
glad he came to you, Mr. Dean.” 

44 God bless you both,” said Mr. Dean. He 


308 DAVID IVES 

squeezed Lester’s hand; then he drew Ruth to him 
and kissed her. 

That evening Mr. Dean asked David to come to 
his room for a few moments. He seemed to David 
somewhat ill at ease ; he greeted him with a curious 
formality, bade him take a chair, and then, after 
an interval of silence, said abruptly: “David, I 
suppose you realize that I ’ve practically adopted 
you and your mother and Ralph as my family. At 
my death such property as I have will go to you 
and Ralph. I have no near relatives, as you know, 
and I believe there is no one who would be likely 
to contest my will, or in the event of contesting it 
likely to succeed. I don’t believe in long engage- 
ments. Five or six months or at most a year is 
sufficient as a probationary period. If you and 
Katharine are just as sure six months from now as 
you are to-day, I think that then you had better 
get married. You will do better work in the med- 
ical school if you are married and settled down 
instead of impatiently waiting to be. I could ar- 
range matters so that you could live comfortably 
— not extravagantly, of course. It is what I should 
do if you were my own son. You stand in that 
relation to me.” 

“ I don’t see how I could let you do that, Mr. 


ATTAINMENT 


309 


Dean,” said David, with distress as well as grati- 
tude in his voice. “ Somehow I ’ve often wondered 
whether it was right that I should accept so much 
from you as I have done — whether it was alto- 
gether manly of me. I hope I don’t hurt you when 
I say this. But I ’ve never been quite comfortable 
about it. Whether I wouldn’t have been better 
satisfied with myself if I ’d worked my way through 
college — paid for my own education — ” 

“My dear boy, don’t I know you’ve often been 
troubled by those doubts! But it wasn’t selfishness 
on your part that impelled you to accept my assist- 
ance. There was the obligation not to reject an 
arrangement that would improve your mother’s 
circumstances and that would give Ralph his 
chance. There was my own peculiar need, which 
you could hardly in compassion have refused. No, 
you’ve given quite as much as you’ve received. 
You needn’t have scruples on that score. And 
now in regard to Katharine.” 

He rose and made his way to his bureau, where 
his hand unerringly searched out and picked up a 
framed photograph of a young woman who was 
dressed in a fashion of fifty years ago. David had 
often wondered about that photograph — who the 
girl was and why, even in his blindness, Mr. Dean 


310 


DAVID IVES 


had always been careful that it should occupy the 
central place on his bureau. 

“ David,” said Mr. Dean, holding out the 
picture, “there is the photograph of the girl to 
whom I was engaged when I was in college. When 
I graduated, I went into teaching at a small salary ; 
we felt that we could not immediately afford to 
get married, but in a year or so — well, eventually 
I did win some increase in salary, but when I did 
my mother’s health was failing, and what I earned 
barely sufficed to keep her properly cared for 
until she died. At the end of four years it seemed 
to us that we could get married. Our plans were 
all made when Lydia — that was her name — 
was stricken with scarlet fever. She died in two 
weeks. Less than a year later an uncle of my 
mother’s, a childless widower who had gone West 
in his early youth and who had never manifested 
the slightest interest in his relatives, died and 
left me a hundred thousand dollars. That money 
might have been of so much use to me and was 
of so little! I don’t want you, David, to run the 
risk of missing your happiness as I missed mine. 
I don’t even want you to go through four years of 
waiting such as I passed through. Indeed, I ’m 
determined not to allow it. You must talk with 


ATTAINMENT 


311 


Katharine and tell her what I ’ve said ; and perhaps 
she will come and let me talk with her. If she 
does, I shall tell her that I feel — I know — my 
Lydia’s spirit is hovering near, watching you and 
her, watching you and her wistfully. Sometimes 
of late when I hold this photograph I feel again 
my Lydia’s hand in mine.” 

Mr. Dean’s head had sunk forward upon his 
breast, his voice had grown dreamy, he seemed 
suddenly to have forgotten David’s presence. But 
only for a moment; he raised his head and said 
with brisk and cheerful command that brooked 
no argument: “So we won’t discuss it any more, 
David. Run along now and tell Katharine what 
I ’ve made up my mind to do.” 

After David had left the room, Mr. Dean 
remained seated in his chair, holding the photo- 
graph, lightly caressing it with his fingers. 


THE END 
























































































sw 




























































- 













- i •* r. ■ ' T • i 



















